


Reaching The Limits

by EmmaArthur



Series: Broken Toys (Five times John had a migraine) [2]
Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, Hyperacusis, John Whump, John is feeling really bad, Lorna's questioning her decisions, Sensory Processing Disorder, enemy of my enemy, really angsty, tag to 2x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:05:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaArthur/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: Tag to 2x10. John has a really rough time after being rescued from the Purifiers' compound. Clarice and Marcos find out just how guilty he's been feeling about everything that's happened. Lorna is starting to question some of her decisions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this episode was all I hoped for and never expected, in terms of John and Thunderblink. They'd really left us in the worst place last time, but it paid off more than I thought it would. Among other things, I didn't think we'd get to see John getting hurt this much, after there was no hint of it in season 1 (yes, I'm a sucker for John whump. Sue me.)
> 
> They even used his enhanced senses. Like I've been doing in, like, all of my fics so far. Though honestly, I had to pull off my own headphones and I was crying every time Turner put the music on. It's possibly the worst torture my little hypersensitive autistic heart could imagine.
> 
> Of course I couldn't resist doing a fic. I meant to write a couple thousand words of John getting home and taken care of. It turned into...this. Seriously angsty stuff, and way longer than I expected. There should be at least two more chapter, maybe more.
> 
> This operates under the same headcanons as my Sense series, though it's not necessary to have read it. It can be seen as a sort of sequel to Migraine, beside being an episode tag.
> 
> First chapter is nearly pure hurt/comfort, with Thunderblink feels, just after the rescue.
> 
> I'll try to post all the chapters before the next episode, but no guarantee. Tell me what you think!

“Are we really doing this here?” John asks with some difficulty when Clarice helps him sit on the edge at the back of the car and starts taking apart a first-aid kit. They're basically in the middle of nowhere, just far enough from the Purifiers' compound to be sure they haven't been followed. Everyone else had already filed out of the two cars, the tension between them reaching its breaking point.

“I'm sorry, John, I know this isn't ideal but we have a three-hour trip back home. I don't want you to bleed out. We'll get Caitlin to take a look at you, but she's, uh, occupied right now.”

“With Andy?”

Clarice nods and grimaces.

“There's pellets still in your wounds. I need to get them out,” she says.

John shakes his head, wincing when it pulls on his wounds. “Get Lorna. While she's still here.”

“I can do this, we don't need her.”

“Look, Clarice,” John starts, hating how hard it is to speak. His ears are still ringing loud enough for him to want to curl up in a ball, and the words just won't come all the way to his mouth. “I get that−” he stops to cough, and bends double at the pain. “−that you don't want to depend on her more. But−” Another agonizing cough. Speaking is getting even harder, his mouth too dry and his tongue bitten and swollen. “−they're too deep.”

“What do you mean?”

“My skin can't be...stretched, or cut. I need Lorna.”

He sees the shift in Clarice's expression when she realizes what he's trying to say.

“But last time, Dr Kelsey−”

“Not as deep. Not so close,” John gives up on making full sentences. At this point, he can barely hold himself up.

“Okay,” Clarice says. She sees him sway and slips under his arm to stabilize him.

John gratefully leans onto her, though not so much as to risk crushing her with his weight. He closes his eyes briefly, exhausted.

“Lorna!” Clarice yells. Loudly. Far too loudly.

Absurdly, after being shot so many times, after the hours of torture and brutality, of impossibly loud music, that's what almost defeats John. A low guttural sound makes it out of his mouth and he feels the ground shift under him. Falling to his knees, he heaves painfully and throws up on the floor, barely avoiding Clarice's shoes. Not that he's in any state to notice.

“Dammit,” Clarice murmurs, crouching urgently beside him. “John, I'm so sorry.”

John dimly feels the urge to tell her not to be, but he's overtaken by another bout of nausea. When he reaches up to wipe his mouth, he finds his face wet with tears. He hadn't even realized he was crying.

“John,” Clarice repeats, her voice still as low as she can make it. “John, please look at me.”

“'M okay,” John croaks out painfully.

“What is it?” comes Lorna's voice from somewhere above him. Too loud. Now that the adrenaline is leaving his body, everything is too loud. John knows he'll pay dearly for the music Turner inflicted on him. “John? Come on, let's get you back up.”

Between them, the girls manage to get him sitting at the back of the car. John tries to help, but even holding his head up is hard. Tears are still pouring down his face, from sheer pain and exhaustion. Clarice notices and tries to dry them, but they just keep coming.

“What did you want me for?” Lorna asks. She sounds like she's trying to seem uncaring, but the effect is ruined by the fact that she's whispering, and unconsciously rubbing circles into John's arm.

“He say you're the only one who can get the pellets out,” Clarice answers, her anger barely contained. John reaches out for her with his injured arm, but he ends up bumping into her leg instead of talking her hand like he wanted. She looks down and grabs his hand. “You with me?” she asks quietly.

John doesn't try to meet her eyes−any sensory input is too much, right now−but he nods minutely.

“Can you...feel them?” he asks Lorna, trying hard not to cough again.

“Yes. You're moving too much, it will be better if you lean on something.”

John dimly realizes how much his hands are shaking, how much his whole body is trembling and swaying. For the first time in years, he's cold, and it has nothing to do with the outside temperature.

Clarice gently helps him lean back against the crates in the truck of the car. John doesn't let himself relax, knowing exactly what's coming−the harrowing pain of Lorna pulling at the pellets embedded in his flesh.

His vision is clouded by the tears, but he can feel how much Lorna's power has changed, how much smoother and stronger it is than that day years ago when she tried to remove the pieces of shrapnel in his back. So long ago. Before Marcos, before Clarice, before all this. Back when they were all each other had.

“Superficial ones first,” Lorna says, her voice still quiet enough that it barely registers above the ringing in John's ears. But he couldn't handle anything louder. “I think I've got them all. A few of them have gone in really deep, this is not going to be pleasant.”

John nods his acknowledgment. Clarice shifts closer to him, taking his hand again.

“No,” he murmurs, gently pushing her away. “Don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” Clarice murmurs back, but she still moves her hand to his forearm, squeezing tight.

“There we go,” Lorna says.

John arches his back as the pellets are squeezed out one by one. He manages not to make a sound, but his desperate gasps for air turn into coughing again. Clarice cradles his head in her hands, trying to keep him from moving, until John pushes her away to throw up again. He's dry-heaving by now, with nothing left in his stomach to come back up−he doesn't remember the last time he's eaten. Or slept.

It's hard to focus his mind on anything but the pain. There's Clarice's presence, and Lorna's−how is she even here?−and Turner's−no, no, Turner's not here. Turner with a shotgun, and the headphones, the music burning holes in his brain…

“John!”

John snaps back to attention, out of a reflex from long-gone times. Clarice and Lorna are both trying to hold him up, to get him off his knees. His body doesn't seem to remember how to stand back up.

“It's done,” Lorna murmurs in his ear. “It's over, John. You'll be alright.”

John blinks and looks at her, a memory coming back to his mind. “You kept your promise,” he says slowly.

“I'm not back,” Lorna answers.

“I know.”

_Your friends are never getting out of the Inner Circle,_ Evangeline told him.  She was right. He's known that all along. He also know it's his responsibility to stop them from doing any more harm.

But not today. Today, Lorna and Andy came for him. Saved him.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Lorna sighs. “ You would have done the same for me.”

“In a heartbeat,” John answers.

T aking a shaky breath, Lorna squeezes his hand and walks away.  John closes his eyes.

“Okay, one more effort,” Clarice says. “We need to clean the wounds and bandage them.”

John grits his teeth through the sting of the disinfectant Clarice pours over his chest and arm.  She then proceeds to use gauze to clean up some of the blood, trying to avoid scraping his wounds directly.

“Wait,” John says when she takes out rolls of bandages.

“You need a minute to breathe?”

John nods. He's panting, barely holding himself up.  He wipes his eyes angrily, wincing when his nails hit the cuts on his face he's forgotten about.  He still has enough adrenaline in him that he hasn't completely collapsed, but the ringing in his ears is getting louder, accompanied by the telltale constricting pain behind his eyes, the beginning of a migraine. 

After a few deep breaths−as deep as he can take them, he's pretty sure he has at least a couple of cracked rib from that car ramming in to him−his body feels slightly less like one large bruise. He's starting to distinguish the individual hurts.  His wrists and ankles are raw from the chains, from the damage he did to himself trying to break them and simply because Turner and his new friends chained him so tight that the metal dug into his dense skin. His neck is a mess of bruises and abrasions, his throat hoarse from the collar.

He's always wondered what the power-containment collars would do to him, with an active ability he can't actually turn off.  He's rather thankful he didn't have to find out today, that he was captured by Purifiers rather than by Sentinel Services. Jace Turner was far more dangerous when he had real means at his disposal. The Purifiers are a real concern for society, for mutants as a whole, but individually they don't have much power.

Turner is creative, though, John has to give him that. Most mutant-haters are so afraid of mutant powers that they wouldn't even think to use them. But Turner remembered John's enhanced senses and tailored his torture for him. The music, for hours on end, was honestly worse than the shotgun. John still wants to curl up and press his hands over his ears, even while knowing it won't do anything for the ringing.

“You ready?” Clarice asks.

John opens his eyes and nods. Clarice ducks under his arm to support him as she starts rolling bandages around his waist.

“This is awful,” she says. “One more shot could have killed you.”

Just like that, he's staring down  t he barrel of the shotgun  again ,  hearing the click as Turner tried to empty it once more and it didn't go off. John blinks and doesn't tell  Clarice .  Her look when she saw him...she doesn't need any more trauma today.  He flinches instead as she touches a particularly sensitive spot. 

“Sorry,” she whispers.

John tries to rid himself of the image of Turner floating around in his mind−which is hard, since he's the one who inflicted these injuries. Every flinch, every drop of blood takes him back to that room. Sometimes John wants to curse his mutation, when it just won't let him escape from the bad stuff.

“Andy and Lorna…” he starts instead. He trails off. He doesn't know how to convey what he's trying to ask, and the words are still too hard to get through his mouth. “How?” he settles on.

“It's a long story,” Clarice sighs. “John, I'm−I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you got captured, I should−”

John looks up at her when her voice breaks, heartbroken to see the tears in her eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pulling her closer. “You saved me.”

They stay immobile for a while, brow to brow, as close as they can get to hugging for now. Clarice is crying, from relief or guilt or pain, John doesn't know anymore. He just breathes in her scent and lets that comfort him. He has plenty to feel guilty and pained and broken about, too, but not right now. The worst of the emotions will come later, along with the consequences of what happened. For now he's just relieved to be out of  _there_ .

“Let's go home,” Clarice says eventually, finishing bandaging his wounds.

John is more than ready for that.


	2. Chapter 2

John dozes through most of the trip back, half-lying in the front seat of Lorna's car. Clarice sits behind him, gently stroking his face.

After the argument with his family that John only heard partially, Andy rides back with them. Lorna is the one driving, and the atmosphere is nothing if not tense, but it doesn't matter to John anymore. He's too tired to care.

Lorna pulls up right in front of their building. While Marcos and Clarice get out of the back or the car, she leans over and pulls John into a quick, gentle hug, careful of his injuries.

“Take care of yourself,” she murmurs.

John meets her eyes, briefly, and she turns away. Unable to think of an answer, he painfully pulls himself out of the car, leaning on Marcos. They all stare, unmoving, as Lorna and Andy drive off, each at the wheel of one of the cars.

It tastes like another failure.

John tries to lean on Clarice and Marcos as little as possible on the way up to the apartment, but his legs simply won't carry him properly anymore. The migraine he felt starting hours ago is slowly getting worse, and John knows it's going to be a bad one. Possibly one of his worst.

Marcos half-guides half-carries him to the bedroom, while Clarice scrambles to pull back the blankets. John drops onto the bed. He tries to unlace his boots, but the pain of bending down and his lack of coordination defeat him. Clarice does it for him, gently and sweetly, her eyes barely leaving his face like she's afraid he'll disappear again.

John badly needs a shower, to get the grime and blood and the goddamn smell of that place off him, but it's going to have to wait. There's no way he could stand in the shower right now. He lets Clarice help him lie down and pull the covers back over his legs.

“You okay like this?” she asks.

John nods. Despite how much he's hurting all over, the soft mattress is the most wonderful trade from the wooden pole digging into his back and the chains. And the collar. John can still feel the phantom sensation of it, trying not to move his head so it doesn't cut his breathing.

He's free, and it's the most incredible thing.

Clarice steps out for a moment, John isn't sure how long. Time is weirdly distorted right now. It feels like both a lifetime and just a few moments since he was last here, arguing with Clarice because that's the only thing they've done lately.

There, another thing he has to apologize for. Later, when each word doesn't feel like it's ripping apart his throat, when he can do it properly. What he said deserves him getting on his knees before her. At least.

He feels a sudden weight on the bed, and turns his head to find Zingo jumping onto his side of the bed−for some reason John ended up on Clarice's.

“Hey girl,” he rasps out.

She whines and lies down beside him, her head against his hip. John reaches out to pet her.

 _You have no idea how happy I am to see you_ is too long a sentence to articulate right now, but John tries to convey it anyway.

She just looks back at him, unimpressed, and whines again.

“'m alright,” John mutters.

“Do you want me to get her out?” Clarice asks, coming back into the room carrying a kitchen chair.

“No, 's fine,” John answers.

Clarice sits down beside him, taking his hand in hers.

“I was so afraid,” she murmurs. “We didn't know where you were, we had nothing−”

“But you found me,” John squeezes her hand.

“Thanks to Lorna. No one wanted to...but we had no other choice...”

Clarice trails off. John wants to reassure her, apologize, say something, but it's beyond him at the moment. He flinches at a noise from the kitchen. Marcos. Marcos is on his phone in their kitchen, not Turner.

“John, what did they do to you?” Clarice asks. There's too much anguish in her voice.

“You saw,” John croaks out, looking down at his chest.

“Yeah, but before that. You're...I don't know, I've never seen you this shaky, this jumpy.”

Right. He's been flinching at every noise, at every hand even approaching his head. His brain is still waiting for another round of the music.

“Music. Loud. Really loud.” He shudders.

“They used your hearing?” Clarice asks, horrified.

“Turner's idea,” John says.

“For how long?”

“Whenever...” John trails off, too tired to make up a sentence.

“Whenever he wasn't interrogating you?” Clarice guesses. “John, you were there for almost twenty-four hours!”

“Felt...longer.” It really did. With the music blasting his brain apart, it felt like an eternity. “But you...came for me.”

“Oh, John,” Clarice runs a hand down his face. “I wish we'd found you sooner. I wish I hadn't bailed on you like that.”

“T's okay,” John mutters. He feels his eyes closing, almost on their own. He can still see Clarice through his mutation, though strangely distorted with the ringing in his ears. “Did...your best.”

“Go to sleep,” Clarice murmurs. “You're safe now.”

John is already half-asleep when he realizes dimly he hasn't told her about the migraine.

 

“Lorna? Can I talk to you?”

Lorna turns, halfway through unlocking her door. She finds Sage walking toward her, holding a tablet.

“Sure, come in,” she says, opening the door with a flick of her hand. She's have rather been left to her own thoughts, but she owes Sage for today, for finding the Purifiers' compound and not telling Reeva. “What is it?”

“I, uh...” Sage hesitates. She looks disturbed. “After you attacked the Purifiers, they broke the closed circuit of their network to communicate with their boss. I was able to get in.”

“What did you find?” This could be good. If it gets them closer to eliminating the Purifiers, then Lorna is all for it. After today, it's going to be her number one goal.

What they did to John is worse than unforgivable. Nobody touches her friends. It doesn't matter that they don't see eye to eye anymore, John's still her best friend.

“A bunch of information about the group, I still need to parse through that. But there was something else.”

Once again, Sage hesitates. Like she's afraid of Lorna, for some reason.

“What?” Lorna asks, a bit impatiently.

“They recorded what they did to John,” Sage says slowly. “Every minute of it. I've started watching, I couldn't go through all of it, but I've isolated Turner's interrogations. The rest is mostly just John chained to a pole, forced to listen to hard rock at full volume.”

Lorna feels her blood run cold. “They used his mutation?”

If she thought she was angry before…

Sage nods, taking a step back. “For hours. I don't know how he held on.”

“The bastards,” Lorna mutters, reining in her anger. There's no point in raging at Sage.

“I hate it as much as you do. But there's something else.”

“What?”

“It's in Turner's interrogation. He got John to tell him about us, about the Inner Circle. And that you and Andy had left the Underground.”

“John broke?” Lorna asks incredulously.

Sage shakes her head. “I would have, too. But I don't think he broke. I think he was trying to protect his friends, trying to convince Turner not to go against the Underground.”

“By selling us out?”

“He has no reason to protect us,” Sage says. “And I don't think he meant to tell Turner about you and Andy, but Turner figured out that you were at the bank.”

“Dammit!” Lorna spits.

“There's something else.”

Lorna pauses. Sage doesn't just look uncomfortable anymore, she looks disturbed.

“I'm not going to like it, am I?”

Sage hands her the tablet, touching it to start the video.

Lorna didn't see where−and how−John was held in that basement, since she and Marcos were tasked with distracting the Purifiers. A knot form in her throat at the sight of her friend in chains, a collar around his neck. Unconsciously, she rubs at her own neck. She remembers the sensation. The humiliation.

“ _So they just, what, turned their backs on the dream of the X-Men, huh? How the hell did that happen?”_

The camera is turned toward John, so Lorna can't see Turner's expression, but she can imagine it. Hearing his voice, she feels a surge of hate the strength of which she hasn't experienced since the day she escaped prison.

She resists taking the tablet apart with her powers and tries to concentrate on John's face.

“ _Because I couldn't make them believe. Because I failed.”_

Lorna freezes. She slowly, unthinkingly lets herself drop onto her bed, when her legs feel like they won't carry her anymore, and she stares.

She's never heard that kind of desperation in John's voice. Never. Not on his worst days post-withdrawal, when he begged her for his pills. Not during the migraines that reduced him to a sobbing mess. Not even after they lost Pulse.

It's not the torture doing that to him.

“He blames himself for us leaving,” Sage says, after they've been silent for a while.

Lorna snaps out of her fixation to look up a her. She's twisting her hands anxiously.

“He blames himself for _me_ leaving.”

“We were friends, too.”

Lorna nods, conceding her that. “But _I_ built the station with him. I was there from the start, I _promised_ him I would always be there.”

“You were there for him today,” Sage says.

“I almost didn't go,” Lorna sighs. “Because I was afraid of what Reeva would do.”

Suddenly feeling cold−though it has nothing to do with the actual temperature−she kicks off her boots and wraps her arms around her legs. “I was never afraid of what John would do. We often disagreed, but we could always talk about it.”

Sage sits down beside her. “I've been thinking of that, too, lately. I know that what we do here is going to make a difference, but−”

“Don't,” Lorna stops her. “The Underground is dead. Even John knows it. _This_ is our only option to make things change.”

Sage looks at her for a while, then shakes her head.

“There's one more thing,” she says slowly. “It looks like Turner started believing John after that, stopped hurting him.”

“Then why did he shoot him?”

“Because he saw you and Marcos attacking the compound. Together.”

Lorna puts a hand over her mouth, nauseous.

“Show me,” she says.

She doesn't know why she wants to see it. Is it because she doesn't want to believe it, that her coming to save John is also the reason he got hurt so badly? Or is she trying to punish herself?

Sage bites her lip. “If you want. But I'm not watching it again.”

Lorna nods. Sage brings up the video on the tablet, then stands up and walks to the door.

“Sage?” Lorna stops her.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For bringing this to me. Alone.”

Sage nods. “This is about John, it doesn't concern Reeva. I saw no need to go to her. And, uh, Lorna?”

“What?”

Sage hesitates. “If you decide to do something about this,” she gestures toward the tablet. “Tell me? Whatever it is, I won't betray you.”

Lorna stares at her for a moment, then nods. She doesn't know what Sage expects her to do exactly. It's not like she can just...turn back time, repair her relationship with John and Marcos. Go back to the Underground.

It's far too late for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to know how Lorna would react to knowing how much John blames himself for everything since ep 2, so there's something.
> 
> I've started a (very new and empty) Tumblr over [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theemmaarthur)  
> I want to put some headcanons/ficlets and story updates over there, I'll also take prompts, so don't hesitate to follow/ask me stuff.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John, Clarice and Marcos in this chapter. Lorna will be back in the next.

When John wakes up, the daylight coming from the window behind him is dim, nearing sundown. But he still closes his eyes again immediately against the assault.

“John?”

Clarice is still sitting beside him, on the same kitchen chair. He's slept for at least a couple of hours, but she doesn't seem to have moved−it would have woken him.

A groan is all that comes out of John's mouth when he tries to answer her.

“What's wrong?”

“Light,” John manages to whisper. “Migraine.”

“Oh no,” Clarice sighs, standing up to close the blinds−and then the curtains.

Once the only light left comes from the open door, John opens his eyes again.

“Sorry,” he murmurs self-deprecatingly. Clarice has seen just enough of his migraines to know that they can be bad−not enough to see just how bad they can get. She's about to find out, John suspects.

“No, no, don't be, it's just...what brought this on? Oh, the music. God, I'm sorry. I should have thought of it−” Clarice rambles on.

John reaches out for her. “Wouldn't have...changed anything,” he says. “But it's a bad one.” He needs to warn her, at least somewhat. Even Marcos has never seen a truly bad migraine.

“How bad is bad?” Clarice asks.

“Probably not going to die,” John says dryly. It's really the only thing he can guarantee. “Passing out...possible.”

“From the pain?”

Clarice looks scared now, and this isn't what John wanted. He doesn't want to scare her ever again, not after this. But if they're going to get through this night, she needs to know.

He takes a breath. “You don't need to watch. There's nothing...to do.”

“There's got to be something. Painkillers? We only have Tylenol, but I'm sure Caitlin's got something stronger, or she can get it for you.”

“No,” John shakes his head.

“Even if it doesn't do anything for the migraine, maybe it will help with your chest,” Clarice says.

“No, that's not why. I told you before about−about the pills I took.”

Clarice nods, frowning.

“I can't take anymore,” John says urgently, grabbing her wrist. She makes a move as if he's hurting her, which he probably is, and he lets her go immediately. He doesn't have the best control over his body right now.

“Okay, okay,” she says, still uncomprehending. “I'm not gonna make you, John.”

“No, Clarice, I need you to...” John swallows several times, trying to get his dry mouth to cooperate. He needs to make her understand. “This is about to get...really bad.”

“What do you mean? The migraine?”

“Yes. I might not...be able to refuse the pills. I might beg for them. Don't let me take them.”

“Beg? I−”

“Clarice, promise me,” John breathes.

“Okay,” Clarice nods to placate him. “But if it hurts that much, why?”

“Withdrawal is worse,” John murmurs. “Not doing...that again. Please.”

“Okay, I promise,” Clarice relents. “I won't let you take any pills.”

John lies back on his pillow, relieved. That means he can let go.

“You should sleep...in the other room,” he tries weakly.

He doubts Clarice will be willing to leave. And there's nothing he wants less than to be left all alone with the ringing in his ears and the pain and the echoes of that music, of the shotgun, the look in Turner's eyes and the power tools. But he has to try.

“I'm staying with you,” Clarice says, her tone final.

“'kay,” John murmurs, almost relieved. “Thank you.”

The pain in his head is already drowning the pain from his wounds. As close as he can tell, it's been about five hours since he felt the migraine start. John is honestly surprised he wasn't screaming in pain already in the Purifiers' basement, with the headphones on his ears, but his body probably waited until he was physically safe to make its discontentment known. It's well-behaved that way, or he wouldn't have made it through two tours overseas.

It just means that when it's delayed like this, the punishment is ten times worse. John can feel the exhaustion in his bones, not just the one from staying awake all night with the music, but from the days−the months−before. He can't remember the last time he slept properly. Sometime before he went to see Evangeline? Or was it before the disaster in Atlanta? Guilt and grief have been warring with each other to eat him inside.

John tries to curl up on himself, but the blood-soaked bandages pull at his wounds. He gives up and stays lying on his back, his eyes closed tightly. He feels, just barely, Clarice's hand slip into his.

 

Clarice tries to make herself comfortable on the kitchen chair she's dragged into their bedroom, but she's been sitting in the same position for over two hours and the wood is digging into her back. She's so tense that her shoulders are aching badly.

After a while, she gives up and, as noiselessly as possibly, skirts around the bed to sit on the empty side instead. Even though the room is now nearly dark, it's still early, about dinner time, and she'd be unable to sleep if she tried. But she doesn't want to leave John. She promised him to stay, and she heard just how much he doesn't want to be left alone in his voice. She sits cross-legged and buries one hand in Zingo's fur, letting the dog's heat reassure her. John's skin, for the first time since she's met him, is cold. Cold and clammy.

In the near-dark, she tries to pretend she can't see the blood stains on the bandages visibly grow. She doesn't think John is sleeping, not really, he rarely does on the first night of a migraine. He's not moving, though, his eyes closed and his breathing slightly ragged.

Observing him, Clarice keeps flashing back to Marcos's phone call, the one she almost fielded in anger. If John had called her before being captured, she almost certainly wouldn't have answered. She shivers in retrospection.

“ _It's John. Purifiers attacked us, and he tried to hold them off.”_

John got captured, tortured, and all of that could have easily been avoided if Clarice had simply been there. She's have made a portal, got them away safely. But no, she had to storm off in anger.

The words John said that hurt her so badly, so profoundly, seem oddly unimportant now.

“ _They've got him.”_

Clarice shakes her head, trying to get rid of the thoughts. She's been dwelling on them for hours, along with all of the worst case scenarios the darkest corners of her mind could make up. They got John back. Alive.

They can work out everything else later.

A very light knock at the door makes John wince, even in his dozing state. Clarice turns to see Marcos standing on the doorstep.

“Any change?” he asks, his voice low but not low enough, since John opens his eyes and blinks at them with a pained face.

 _Migraine,_ Clarice mouths at Marcos, waving a hand to stop him from making anymore noise.

 _Sorry,_ Marcos mouths back, grimacing in compassion.

Clarice stands up and walks over to the door, though she doesn't leave John out of her sight.

“You want to eat dinner?” Marcos asks her in a murmur.

“I don't want to leave him,” Clarice answers the same way. “Don't think I could eat anyway.”

The knot in her stomach is far too tight for that.

“You haven't eaten since yesterday,” Marcos frowns. “Neither has he, probably,” he adds, gesturing toward John.

“He needs sleep more than he needs to eat,” Clarice says. “And he's probably nauseous. He threw up earlier.”

“Fine. I'm not sure I can stomach anything either, but I'll go to my place to make something we can eat later, alright?”

Clarice nods gratefully. “He said it was going to be a bad one,” she whispers.

“He's injured, and he's had a day from hell. I'm not surprised.”

“No. But he actually looked scared.” Clarice feels her voice break, remembering John's insistence about the painkillers, the look on his face.

Marcos bites his lip. “You've seen how much the migraines hurt him.”

“But he's never looked scared before,” Clarice murmurs.

“I don't know exactly what he went through over there,” Marcos says, “but he's going to need time to heal.”

“I know. I just don't know how to help him.”

 

The noise starts an hour later. It's just a neighbor listening to music, or a party of some kind on the floor above theirs, it happens at least once a week and the crappy apartments are anything but soundproof. Usually John just sleeps with his ear defenders on or stays up until it stops.

Only this time the sudden music throws John right into a panic attack. He flinches so hard when it starts that he knocks over his nightstand and the lamp on it. Clarice barely avoids getting hit in the face.

When she looks at John, still flailing in panic, his eyes are wide open and unseeing.

“John!” she whispers.

He doesn't seem to hear her at all.

“John!”

Her voice, louder, makes him moan in pain. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “You back with me?”

“Mhh,” John sighs.

“Did you just have a flashback or something?”

John nods. “S'rry” he mutters.

“Don't apologize for something like that,” Clarice whispers.

This is the worse possible time for someone to have a party in the building, but there's nothing to be done about it. Seeing John like this, flinching at every noise, actually afraid, tears at Clarice's heart.

As the volume of the music turns up once more−it's not even loud, not really, Clarice would barely even notice it if it wasn't for John−John clasps his hands over his ears. Clarice winces in sympathy. John normally hears a lot more than other people; in the throws of a migraine, even the slightest sound feels like he's being stabbed. That's how he described it, once, when Clarice asked what it was like.

That give her an idea. Reaching over, she opens the drawer of John's nightstand, the one that hasn't been turned over, and takes out his ear defenders.

She gently pries John's hands away from his ears−not an easy feat, given how strong he is, but he must recognize her touch because he lets her. He looks at her, his eyes briefly focusing on her face before he shuts them tightly again.

“Don't worry,” Clarice murmurs. “I just want to do this.”

She grabs the ear defenders and clasps them around his head, as carefully as possible.

She's entirely unprepared for John's reaction. He gasps, panicked, and flails widely, knocking Clarice off the bed entirely. She catches herself before her head hits the wall, but her back slams onto the floor painfully.

John is still clumsily, violently battling the ear defenders when she manages to pick herself up. They're untangled in his hair by now, but he keeps trying to get them off, scratching at his own skin in the process.

“John, wait!” Clarice exclaims desperately. “I'll take them off, okay? Please calm down.”

She's not sure he hears her at all, but he freezes the moment she grabs his wrists. It seems like an ingrained reflex, because his gaze is unfocused. She's seen that in him before, the way he automatically stops himself from any move that could hurt someone else.

Clarice lets go of his hands to remove the ear defenders, doing her best to untangle his hair from the headpiece. John starts to relax the moment his ears are free.

“What the hell?” Clarice subvocalizes to herself.

Still breathing harshly, John curls up on himself as far as he can with his injured chest and buries his face in his pillow. Clarice winces at the blood stain where he reopened one of the cuts on his face.

“Oh, John,” she murmurs.

She doesn't dare come close to his head again, but she rubs his arm until his breathing is back to normal. As normal as it can be when he's in that much pain.


	4. Chapter 4

Lorna stares at her phone for nearly half-an-hour before she musters up the courage to call.

“Hello?”

It's funny how Marcos's voice still moves her, even though she just saw him today. Fought alongside him, almost like old times.

She forces herself to move past that. She's not calling him to dwell on their broken relationship.

“I need to talk to John,” she says.

“Lorna? What the hell?” Marcos yells.

“Marcos, please−”

“You call _me_ , at almost midnight, after a day like today, to speak with _John_? Are you serious?”

“Please, Marcos. I need to talk to him.”

Marcos must pick up on the anguish in her voice, because his next sentence is quieter, reticent.

“He can't talk right now.”

Lorna frowns. John wasn't exactly well when she left, but he was conscious, and talking. Then she remembers his face, in the video, when Turner put the headphones on him.

“Migraine?” she asks.

“Worst I've ever seen,” Marcos sighs. “How do you know?”

Lorna hesitates. “Sage found recordings. Of what the Purifiers did to him. They tortured him with noise, Marcos.”

“Oh my God,” Marcos breathes, as shocked as she still is.

Interrogation, torture, whatever they imagined the Purifiers were ready to do is one thing. But using someone's specific mutation to hurt them is one of the most powerful taboos in the community. Turner wouldn't know that, of course, but it still feels like a violation of everything they are.

Unbidden, Lorna thinks of Marcos's visit to the Inner Circle headquarters, of the way his own power burned him under Reeva's scream. One of the many things from the last few months that just doesn't sit right with her. Reeva, and the organization she leads, are scarily powerful in their own right, but Reeva's power used on other mutants, turning their own abilities against them, is terrifying.

Lorna shudders at the memory of her scream infiltrating her whole body.

She struggles to get back on track, and plunges right back into another sort of horror. The videos. John's torture.

“They forced headphones with music at full-volume on him,” she says.

She's watched hours of it. After going through each of Turner's interrogations of John several times, she sat rocking on her bed, watching John writhe and grit his teeth and cry, never once making a sound.

She cried, a lot. Somehow in the months of worrying about her pregnancy, then about her daughter, of grieving for Marcos and the family they'll never have, of trying to make herself believe that she made the right decision, she's forgotten about John. Well, not forgotten exactly, but she's pushed him into a corner of her mind and left him there.

But she's also lost a friend. A brother. A brother who apparently believes it's his fault that she left.

Today has reopened wounds she didn't know she carried.

“Marcos−” she starts, her voice breaking. “Please. I need to see him. Can I come over? I know this is asking a lot.”

Marcos sighs. “Lorna… You want to come here in the middle of the night, when John is in the middle of a migraine? Can't this wait for a couple of days?”

For a moment, Lorna doesn't know how to answer. He's right, of course he is. John won't be able to talk, or even listen to whatever she says to him−she doesn't even know what that will be, yet. Calling Marcos was a terrible idea.

But the image comes again, of Turner aiming his shotgun right at John's face and pulling the trigger. She realizes she just needs to see that John is alive.

And, maybe, that he's still the same person she turned her back on nine months ago.

“Please,” she murmurs.

“If it's John you want to see, you should be asking Clarice, not me,” Marcos says.

“She'll never let me in.”

“Probably not. And maybe it would be for the best.”

Lorna doesn't answer. She's almost ready to give up, hang up the phone, but she wants to hear Marcos's voice for a little longer. That wound is one she never loses track of.

“Fine,” Marcos says after a while, when she's almost given up hope that he'll speak again. “Come if you want. Then you can ask Clarice face to face, because she's not going to leave John alone for a even minute tonight.”

“Thank you,” Lorna breathes.

 

It's only standing in front of the Westlake Apartments sign that Lorna realizes she doesn't know which apartment is John and Clarice's−she assumes they live together, given what she's seen of their relationship today, but she doesn't even know for sure. She heads for Marcos's instead, and takes out her phone to text him. It's strange, being able to text him whenever she wants.

Stranger that he can now do the same, and it doesn't make her want to ditch her phone.

She finds him in the corridor, coming down from the upper floors, before she can send the text.

“Upstairs neighbors are making a ruckus,” he explains. “It's really bad for John, but I've been up there twice already and they just won't stop.”

Hearing him talk about something so mundane throws Lorna so far off her base that she doesn't control her answer.

“Want me to make them?”

A year ago, it would have been a joke between them. Now Marcos flinches and sighs.

“Come on,” he says, turning away. “This way. Keep your voice down.”

Lorna resists snapping that she knows that. She's watched over John during migraines far more times than Marcos has, unless he's been having them constantly since she left.

She can hear, just barely, the music from upstairs. It has to be hell on John, especially after what he's been through today.

Marcos opens a door at the end of the same corridor as his place. It leads into an apartment a little larger than his, but just as dingy-looking, the kind that comes readily furnished with mismatched chairs. It's still a step up from what they had at the bank, but nothing like the Inner Circle headquarters, all metal and glass.

Lorna forbids herself from imagining raising her daughter here, with a loving father and a doting uncle. It's a future that's never going to happen.

“Wait here,” Marcos whispers.

Lorna nods and looks around her as Marcos tiptoes to the open door that obviously leads to the bedroom. She can't see inside from here, but he comes back out almost immediately, followed by Clarice.

“How is he?” he asks, his voice low.

“He's burning up,” Clarice whispers. “I think we need to get Caitlin.”

She pulls up short at the sight of Lorna.

“What the hell is _she_ doing here?”

Lorna brings up her arms in an offer of peace, though she gets a feel for the metal around the room, just in case.

“I'm not here to fight,” she says.

Clarice scowls, steps back and very carefully closes the door of the bedroom. When she turns back, she has a murderous look on her face.

“Then _why_ are you here?” she spits out, shooing both Marcos and Lorna backward into the living room.

“I wanted to see John,” Lorna says quietly, fully realizing now how irrational that sounds. More drama is the last thing John needs right now.

“You wanted to see John,” Clarice repeats. “After you _barely_ agreed to look for him when he needed you.”

“I came, didn't I?”

“Because Marcos begged you to!”

“Because John is my friend!” Lorna exclaims, louder than she intends to.

Both Marcos and Clarice glare at her. She throws a worried look at the bedroom door, but there's no sound coming from inside.

“Right, because you've had a great way of showing him that lately,” Clarice hisses.

Lorna crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to answer. She may have to answer for some things to John, but certainly not to Clarice.

“And you let her in _our_ apartment, just like that?” Clarice turns on Marcos.

“I told her she'd need your permission to see him,” Marcos sighs.

“That still didn't give you the right to bring her here!”

“I'm sorry,” Marcos lowers his eyes.

Clarice deflates. She runs a hand over her face, suddenly looking exhausted.

“Fine,” she growls, turning back to Lorna. “Marcos is going upstairs to get Caitlin now. You have until he comes back.”

Marcos looks between them for a moment, then nods and walks away. Lorna considers thanking Clarice, but doesn't. She just nods stiffly.

“The only reason I'm not arguing more is because I don't want him to be alone any longer,” Clarice clarifies. She opens the door of the bedroom to show Lorna in, staying on the doorstep.

Lorna approaches the bed carefully. John is lying on his side despite his wounds, facing the wall. He's twitching as if in a nightmare, muttering in something that is definitely not English. Lorna recognizes a few words of his native language, words he taught her years ago, but not enough to make sense of what he's saying.

Without even thinking about it, Lorna slips into a mental state she recognizes from before. Before everything went wrong. Like they've never spent those months apart, she sits down in the chair beside John and takes his hand firmly. His skin is hot to the touch, his face flushed with fever.

He's clearly in no state to hear what she wants to say, but it can wait.

“Hey,” she murmurs when he opens his eyes and looks at her sluggishly.

“Lorna?” he breathes. “No…not here...”

“Yes, John, I'm here,” Lorna frowns. He's far gone if he thinks she's a hallucination.

“No,” John tries to shake his head. “Not...coming back.” He moans in pain and curls up tighter.

Lorna sighs and holds his hand tighter.

She curses the part of her that want to tell him she's here to stay.

Marcos comes back only a few minutes later, followed by Caitlin. Her eyes widen when she sees Lorna, but she doesn't ask questions. Lorna reluctantly stands up to give her the space and walks out of the room at Clarice's pointed look.

Caitlin starts taking John's pulse, and shoos them out when she sees them hovering at the doorstep. For a moment, the three of them stay standing in the corridor, unsure what to do, glaring at each other.

“There, you've seen him now,” Clarice tells Lorna. “Happy?”

Lorna tries to return her challenging look, but she can't completely keep the tears from her eyes.

“I told you I'm not here to fight,” she says.

Clarice sighs and turns away, clearly too tired and worried to argue. Marcos opens his mouth as if to say something, but he just shakes his head. He opens his arms and Clarice collapses against him.

Lorna feels oddly left out.

After a while,  C aitlin comes out of the bedroom, looking  sorry .

“There's very little I can do,” she says.

“What do you mean?” Clarice asks.

“I can't check his wounds while he's in this state, it might freak him out, but I think the fever is just from shock. It shouldn't last very long, but there's nothing to do about it beside keep him as comfortable as possible. I assume he won't take painkillers?”

Clarice shakes her head, sighing.

“Unless things get critical, we should respect his wishes.”

“Of course,” Clarice mutters. “Isn't there anything else?”

“I don't see what. Have the migraines ever been this bad?”

Clarice starts to shake her head again, looking to Marcos for confirmation, but Lorna  cuts in. 

“Yes. Three times that I know of, and he was either injured or in a bad place mentally when it happened.”

She says this  as  factually  as possible, but her voice breaks at the end .  The last time was after they lost Pulse, and John collapsed after destroying half their supply of concrete block in a  fit of rage. The two times before that were during the worst of his cravings.  Staying up at his side while he moaned, cried, and even once screamed in pain are some of Lorna's worse memories from Atlanta.

Caitlin shifts. “Is there anything−” she trails off uncomfortably, like asking Lorna for advice doesn't sit right with her. 

“No,” Lorna sighs. “Just wait.” The best that could happen to John right now is to pass out from the pain.

Clarice throws her an irritated look and pushes past Caitlin to get into the bedroom.  Lorna runs a hand through her hair and meets Marcos's eyes, seeing the same sorrow in his face that she feels.

F or the first time since Atlanta, it's like they're sharing pain instead of suffering  on their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said this would be short and I'd post it all before next episode?
> 
> I lied.
> 
> I made the mistake (again) of starting a story without planning an end. So of course it got out of hand. Also I've caught up with myself, so updates will be a little slower, as I have almost nothing beyond this point. Tomorrow there's the new episode (please don't spoil me as I have to watch it at least a day late), but hopefully I'll have something for Wednesday.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! 
> 
> [light spoilers for MeMento] This obviously ignores the new episode, though that conversation between Clarice and John was almost to the word what I'd planned for them at some point here. Beside, you know, being way too short.
> 
> I've been super careful to write Lorna in a way that made clear she's not leaving the Inner Circle, not regretting her decision though she regrets the pain it caused, and then they go and do _that_! I'm curious to see how it pans out. 
> 
> Anyway, here's a new chapter. I'm not sure when the next one will be done, it's not even started. I also still have no idea where this story ends...

Clarice takes John's hand in her, settling back on the chair by his bed.

“Hey John,” she murmurs, unsure how conscious he is. “I'm here.” He's still burning up, his eyes closed firmly. The music upstairs has finally stopped, and he's removed his arm from his ear, but his face is taut with pain.

John opens his eyes at her voice.

“Clarice? No...go away...”

Clarice freezes. John doesn't want her here. She looks around her, torn. She doesn't want to leave him, but she can't stay if it's harming him.

“Go...can't be here...”

Or does he even know what's going on around him? He didn't believe Lorna was there, earlier.

“John,” she murmurs. “You want me to leave?”

“No...don't...gon' get hurt...don't come...”

John tosses and turns weakly, now panicking. He seems trapped in a nightmare again. Zingo, who was sleeping snuggled up to him, raises her head. Clarice gently shoos her off the bed, afraid that John might hurt her inadvertently. She tours around the bed and comes to lie down at Clarice's feet instead.

“John, you're safe,” Clarice tries. “We're home, remember?”

“Home...” John repeats. “Clarice...”

“I'm here.”

“'m sorry...”

Clarice chokes up. “I know. Don't worry about that. Just get better, please?”

John doesn't answer, once more lost in his own mind.

“S'rry...” he repeats. “'s all...my fault...”

“It's not your fault,” Clarice tries. She doesn't know what he's apologizing for anymore, but it doesn't matter. He probably doesn't understand what she's saying anyway.

She just hope her presence, her voice can anchor him a little.

“My fault...Lorna...and Andy...gone.”

Clarice looks beyond John at the open door. That John blames himself for Lorna's decision is not new to her, but she'd hope maybe seeing her today would help him make his peace with that. Except he didn't get to see her much, did he? She didn't stay long enough to talk, and John hasn't been in any state to process what happened today.

“Lorna's here,” she says. However much she hates it, if it can comfort John, she'll let Lorna in.

“No...not here...gone...Lorna...Sonya...Gus...”

Tears run down John's face now, still in the throws of whatever his mind is conjuring up.

“Hurts...”

Clarice's heart breaks at that. She's cried so much already that her eyes stay dry, but she suddenly can't speak around the knot in her throat.

“All gone...now Clarice...”

“No, John, I'm here,” Clarice cups his face in her hand, trying to get him to look at her.

There is no recognition in his glazed eyes.

“Marcos...run! Go!” John exclaims suddenly, reliving something. Clarice assumes it's when he got captured, from what Marcos told her.

John moans in pain, probably at the sound of his own voice, and Clarice strokes his face, trying to get him to calm down.

“We're here,” she murmurs. “Home. Marcos is here, and Lorna. We're all safe.”

“Safe...” John repeats, progressively quieting. “Stay safe...don't come for me...”

Clarice sobs, despairing of pulling him out of wherever his mind is. “We've got you, John. You're safe too.”

“No...hurts too much...” John shakes his head violently and shudders. He curls up, more in fear than in pain, his breathing coming in gasps. When Clarice tries to touch his face again, he recoils from her. “Hurts...kill...no, can't let you...”

“What?” Clarice murmurs between sobs. “Kill who? Who can't you let what?”

She's mostly asking herself by now, knowing John won't hear her.

“Turner...no, you can't...”

Clarice jumps when someone puts a hand on her shoulder. She's been so focused on John she didn't see Marcos and Lorna walk in.

“Come on,” Marcos whispers. “You need a break. I'll stay with him.”

Clarice hesitates, sniffling. She's about to refuse, but John stops trembling and muttering, finally relaxing a little.

“Okay,” she says. “I'll be close. Tell me if anything happens.”

 

Clarice actually lets Lorna guide her out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, which says something about how tired she is. Lorna watches her rinse her face and blow her nose, and waits until she looks marginally more presentable.

“I think I know what John was seeing,” she says. “We found recordings of what Turner did to him.”

Clarice swings her head toward her so fast that she stumbles. Lorna catches her arm before she falls down. The woman can barely stay on her feet.

“Let's got sit down,” Lorna says as gently as she can. Clarice may hate her, but right now she needs someone to take care of her.

Clarice looks ready to argue, but she just sways again. After giving Lorna a long look, she nods and stumbles to the couch, where she drops down. Sitting down on a kitchen chair, Lorna notices sadly how she holds herself like she's waiting for someone to put their arm around her. John isn't there to do that.

“What did you mean?” she asks. “That you know what he's seeing?”

“I saw Turner interrogate John,” Lorna says. “Torture him.”

Clarice twitches as the word, but she doesn't comment.

“When we attacked the compound, he went into a rage.” Lorna keeps to herself that the reason of it was her presence. “That's when he shot John. And he told him that...he would hunt down all of his friends and kill them. I think that's what John was reliving just now.”

Clarice closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. “You watched all of that?” she asks.

Lorna doesn't answer. They stay silent for a while, their irregular breathing the only sounds in the room. Marcos is muttering something in the bedroom that Lorna can't quite make out, but she thinks it may be a prayer. She doesn't completely expect the tear that escapes her eye at that.

“Clarice...” she starts hesitantly.

Clarice opens her eyes and looks a her. In this moment, there's no hostility in her face, only pain.

Lorna shifts uncomfortably. “On that tape, John said something else,” she says. “About me, and Andy. I need to know−”

“How long he's been blaming himself?” Clarice rasps.

Lorna nods. “How did you−”

“Since the fever started, he keeps repeating that it's all his fault. It wasn't hard to guess. It's been...tearing at him since Atlanta. He blames himself for the raid on the station, for you and the others leaving, for Sonya's death...pretty much everything.”

Lorna looks away. “That's the way John thinks, sometimes.” She realizes belatedly how cold that sounds. “He blamed himself for Pulse's death for so long,” she adds. “For a while, I thought he would never snap out of it.”

Clarice raises an eyebrow. “It doesn't bother you? That this time it's about you?”

“Of course it does,” Lorna sighs.

“Then why?” Clarice asks. There's animosity in her voice, but no fire. She's too exhausted for that.

“I made a choice. I still think it's the right one. I'm sorry for the pain it causes, I really am, but I'm not going back on it.”

“Then why did you want to know? If you don't care anyway.”

“I don't know,” Lorna admits, running a hand through her hair. It must be completely tangled now, with how much she's been worrying at it. She does care, she cares too much.

Clarice watches her for a moment, with something like a glint in her eye.

“You really have no idea, do you? You claim you know John so well, that you're not surprised he blames himself, but the truth is that you never thought about it, isn't it?”

Lorna opens her mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. Another day, she'd explode in righteous anger, tell Clarice she has no right. But John is in the other room, feverish and in the middle of a bad migraine, and that's what she's here for. Not to justify herself, not to argue. Not to fight.

“A couple of months ago, John went to speak to Evangeline Whedon,” Clarice says quietly. “She blamed him for everything. For all the raids that have destroyed the Underground since Atlanta. That's when he started to become self-destructive.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lorna asks, her voice more desperate than she wants it to be.

Because Clarice is right. While Lorna still stands by her decision, she never really thought about the damage it caused, beyond her own heart tearing at having to leave Marcos. She knew all along that John would never agree, never come with her, but she didn't think about what she left him to deal with.

“Because while you were out there happily becoming a terrorist−”

“We're not terrorists!” Lorna hisses.

“−I'm the one who's had to watch him tear himself apart,” Clarice finishes, ignoring her protest. “And I _can't_ do that anymore.”

She turns her head away, not quite managing to hide the tears once more running down her face. Lorna doesn't even know what to say to that. She coughs quietly to cover her own emotion.

After a while, Clarice turns back to her, now looking almost spiteful.

“You know, when John went to see Evangeline, she told him something else,” she says. “Something that's been destroying him.”

“What?”

“She told him that if you stay in the Inner Circle, he'll probably have to kill you.”

Lorna freezes in shock. Clarice gets up and walks into John's room without giving her time to answer.

Anger is her first reaction. At Clarice, for her spite. At Evangeline, for being so cold-hearted.

At John, even, for always taking everything on his shoulders.

Lorna has no doubt that Evangeline would vehemently disapprove what the Inner Circle is doing. She has never really liked the woman, finding her standoffish and cold, like she thought herself better than her and John because she'd pulled them out of the gutter. But she knows John looks up to her, like he still has an almost reverent admiration for the X-Men and what they stood for. He would have taken such words to heart, of course, being told by his mentor to chose between his cause and the friend−the sister−who left him behind.

Lorna can imagine it tearing at his soul.

“ _We're trying to stop them,”_ John told Turner. Is that what he meant? Is that how far he's willing to go?

Lorna's spent hours lying in her bed,  dreading what it might look like if Marcos and her  ever  find themselves on opposite sides of a battlefield.  She somehow never once imagined fighting against John.

She still can't.

 

Clarice doesn't know what made her so vindictive suddenly, but Lorna's simple presence ma kes her skin crawl. How dare she waltz in and pretend everything is fine, after everything she's done?

The fact that she's probably the only one John told about Evangeline's speech, and only after she pushed him, doesn't cross her mind until later. She's pretty sure neither Marcos nor the Struckers know what John has been trying to steel himself for for the last couple of months, what's been haunting his nights.

But Lorna does, now, and there's no going back on that.  Clarice just hopes she didn't make a terrible mistake.

W atching John go deeper and deeper into that desperate place in his head, the one in which everything they've worked for is gone and it's all his fault, has been harrowing. Nothing Clarice ever said could pull him out of it.

Right up until she bailed on him and he went and sacrificed himself. Marcos told her just how things played out in that alley, how John chose to delay the Purifiers and give them time to escape.

He didn't say it, but had Clarice and her portals been there, none of it would have happened.

She joins Marcos by the bed, where John is now still.  The blood stains on his chest are now larger than the remaining white.

“He's calmed down,” Marcos murmurs. “But I think the migraine is getting worse.”

As if to confirm, John moans quietly and turns his head away.  Clarice sits down on the edge of the bed, discouraged.

“He never gets a break, does he?” she breathes.

“It's going to be alright,” Marcos whispers, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Clarice nods, without really believing it. Yes, John is going to heal, physically. In a few days, he'll act like it never happened. But she's seen the haunted look in his eyes, the way he recoils in fear even from her, the devouring guilt he carries everywhere.

How long can they keep going before this fight destroys everything that's left of them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's not out of the woods yet.
> 
> I've been wanting to know how Lorna would react to what Evangeline said all season. So that's my take on it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while (you know how I intended to finish this story two episodes ago?) but I'm back with a new chapter. More angst, more hurt/comfort, more of everyone taking care of John.
> 
> Enjoy!

Clarice promised herself that she wouldn't fall asleep, so she'd be there if John needed help, but after a few hours she finds herself dozing off and lying down on the other side of the bed, against her wishes. John has been quiet for a while, though he's still obviously in pain, and there's nothing she can for him.

The day has been long and taxing for all of them, though none as much as John. But Clarice and Marcos spent all of last night waiting anxiously for news from their contacts in the Underground and the Morlocks, for any clue as to where John might have been taken, and they barely got any sleep. Now that John is safe, if not out of the woods, Clarice feels herself fading away.

Marcos and Lorna are still in the other room, but they're quiet, in deference to John. Clarice can't tell if they're glaring daggers at each other or kissing by now, but she doesn't particularly care. She only cares about John.

She must have fallen asleep, because when she wakes up to John's moans, nearly an hour has passed. She immediately sits up.

John looks back at her with eyes bright with fever, but for the first time in hours, they're actually focused on her face.

“Please,” he murmurs.

“What do you need?” she whispers back.

John tries to say something, but it's not clear enough to understand. He coughs, and Clarice has to help him turn over to dry heave over the edge of the bed. He grabs her arm and doesn't let go, though Clarice grits her teeth at his unchecked strength.

He keeps muttering something over and over, his gaze barely focused but insistent. Clarice strains to make it out, knowing it must be important.

“Please make it...stop.”

Clarice chokes up and feels tears run down her cheek again.

“John−” she starts. She gently pries his fingers open to free her arm and squeezes his hand. “I'm so sorry...” She's hiccuping now, freely weeping. She can't stand this.

“Stop...” John repeats. “Hurts.”

“I know it hurts,” Clarice murmurs. “I don't know what to do.”

“Hurts...”

John shivers harshly and coughs again. Clarice pulls the covers back over his torso, just to have something to do. Him being cold has nothing to do with the temperature. He mutters something again, but it's not in English.

“Please...can't do it...anymore...” he breathes after a while.

“John...”

“No...can't...need...”

“What do you need?”

“Pills...”

Clarice freezes. John warned her, earlier, that he might start asking for painkillers. He made her promise not to give him any. But the level of pain in his voice...something in Clarice almost wants to ignore her promise, if it can bring him relief.

“I can't do that,” she murmurs. “I'm sorry, John, I promised.”

She rubs circles on his forearm, too scared to approach his face after his panic earlier.

“Please...”

John closes his eyes in exhaustion, but Clarice can still see his hands tense against the sheets and grab fistfuls of it, as he grits his teeth against the pain.

“Let me do this.”

Clarice looks up to see Lorna at the end of the bed, looking hesitant.

“He's asking for−” she chokes up, to rattled to be angry.

“I know. Let me take over.”

“I don't−”

“Clarice, you're exhausted. You need some rest, and I've done this before. Let me.”

They stare at each other for a moment longer, Lorna's gaze Is almost defiant, but also full of tears. She hates seeing John in pain as much as Clarice does, and that's something they can bound over.

Grudges can wait.

“Okay,” Clarice relents. “I just...I don't want to leave him.”

“You can stay,” Lorna shrugs, sitting down in the chair beside John. “Just lie down, and let me take care of him, alright?”

Clarice sighs softly and lies back. She doesn't let go of John's forearm, but she closes her eyes and tries to let herself relax. It's hard, impossible, with John in pain beside her, but she has to admit that not being alone to deal with him is easier.

There's a few minutes of respite before John starts moaning again, tenser than ever. Clarice holds on to his arm tightly, nearly feeling his pain physically.

She opens her eyes when she feels him move against him. He's using his other hand, the one Lorna just let go of, to tug at the bandages on his chest.

“What is he doing?” Clarice murmurs.

“I don't know,” Lorna answers.

John moans again, and then slams his fist right into the worst of his wounds.

“What−” Clarice sits up in alarm. Lorna catches her hand right before she stops John from doing it again. He groans at the pain, but sighs immediately after, relaxing minutely.

“Don't,” Lorna stops Clarice. “He could hurt you. I don't think he's conscious enough to stop himself.”

“Why is he hitting himself?” Clarice asks in anguish.

“I think...the pain in his head right now, it's so bad that he's do anything to stop it. Including hurting himself elsewhere. It's like...I don't really know, the pain of a wound releases endorphins or something.”

“You've seen him do this before,” Clarice states, still in a low whisper. She keeps her eyes on John, but he doesn't seem ready to hit himself again. He's definitely reopened his wounds, though, because the blood stains on his dressings are growing fast. At the edge of her vision, Lorna nods sadly. “Should we call Caitlin? He's losing blood again.”

“He can't handle a change of bandage right now, and his body will heal fast enough.”

“Gnnn,” John starts moaning again, pushing his head against his pillow in another wave of pain. He's gritting his teeth so hard it has to hurt, like he's trying not to scream.

“John...” Clarice murmurs. Her heart break a little more with every sound he makes.

“Please...”

“We're here.”

John opens his eyes halfway and his gaze falls on Lorna.

“Lorna...” he says like he didn't refuse to believe, two hours ago, that she was even there. “I need...pills.”

“You know you can't have them, John,” Lorna says calmly. Almost calmly. Clarice doesn't miss how her hands are shaking.

“Please.”

“John. I don't have any pills for you.”

“Hurts...”

“I know. I'm sorry, John. It will go away.”

John groans and rams his hand into his shoulder, where some of the smaller wounds are undressed. He starts bleeding immediately.

“John, you need to stop that,” Lorna scolds him sternly.

“Can't...hurts...”

“John, please,” Clarice pleads, unable to stand more of it. “You're hurting yourself even more.”

Lorna stops her with a gesture.

“Clarice, this doesn't help,” she says. “I know it's hard, but… Just go get some more bandages, okay?”

Clarice glares at her, but obeys. She takes a moment in the bathroom to try to get her breathing under control, but she finds herself crying her eyes out instead.

“Clarice?”

Marcos knocks lightly on the door−for pure form, since it's wide open−and puts his arms around her. They're not the arms she wants to feel, the strong, muscled, stone-hard arms she loves so much, but she leans into the hug anyway.

“What is it?” Marcos asks.

“I can't do this,” Clarice chokes out. “I can't. He's in so much pain and I'm doing everything wrong and−”

“Clarice, breathe. You're doing what you can. You're here, and watching over him. It's a lot.”

“But he's so...”

“I know. It's hard to see him like this.”

“He's punching himself,” Clarice says, pushing Marcos away gently.

“What?”

“Lorna said something about pain from his wounds making the pain in his head better? I don't know. But I can't handle it.”

Marcos bites his lip.

“Do you need to take a moment? Lorna and I can watch over him. You could go sleep at my place.”

“No, I don't want to leave him,” Clarice sighs. “Sorry, I guess I just needed to vent. I'm here complaining about how hard it is from me when John's in agony...”

“You're allowed to have a hard time, Clarice. It's hard for all of us. John could have died today.”

“I was so scared,” Clarice breaks. “Still am. It's like I haven't had time to register that we got him back.”

“But we did,” Marcos says, squeezing her hand. “And he needs you. He needs to know that you're by his side, that you're not leaving.”

“Because I left before?”

“No. Because he was alone in that basement. I'm not sure he was expecting us to go after him.”

Clarice nods shakily. “I need to go back,” she says. “And I need some more bandages.”

She grabs a few things from their medicine stash and walks back to the bedroom. She pauses before going in, contemplating John's tense form on the bed. Lorna joins her at the door.

“I'm sorry I was a bit harsh,” she whispers, “but the last thing he needs is to think he's hurting you by being in pain. He's already keeping in as much as he can because he knows we're here.”

Clarice sighs, conceding her the point. It's true, seeing John like this hurts her, but John doesn't need to feel guilty about it. Especially since he already seems to feel guilty about everything else.

“How do you do it?” she asks. “Refuse him the pills so firmly, when he's in so much pain?”

Lorna looks at her for a moment, like she's sizing her up.

“I remember,” she says. “What it was like, when we started the station.”

“What do you mean?”

“Evangeline is the one who got him through the worst of the withdrawal, but you don't beat an addiction like that overnight. Especially since he actually needed those pills. He was a mess for months.”

“So _you_ helped him through it?” Clarice asks. Her spite for Lorna is alternatively melting seeing how much she's hurting, and spiking when she sees how deeply she really cares, and thinks of how long John has been beating himself over her.

Lorna lets out a bitter laugh. “God no, I was just as much of a mess. I had to go off my meds too when we went to ground, and it was hell. I guess we dragged each other through the storm. I just...I know why he doesn't want to go through that again.”

Like every time she learns something new about John's past, Clarice is thrown off her base. It's like this man is a bottomless pit of bad stories.

“I have bandages,” she says instead of commenting, holding her hands up. She'll need a while to digest this new piece of information.

“Good. I'm afraid you'll have a hard time cleaning your sheets, though.”

The two of them work in tandem to clean the bleeding wounds on John's shoulder and bandage them. They don't dare change the rest of his bandages, not with how distressed he gets at their ministrations.

“Everything's okay,” Clarice murmurs in his ear in a loop. They've had to turn on a light, and John has his arm pressed hard over his eyes. He flinches weakly at every one of Lorna's movements, though Clarice is fairly sure he's reacting to the sounds she makes more than to her touch on his skin. It should be barely above his perception level. But having people so close to him, doing things to him he can't understand, is rattling him badly.

Clarice and Lorna both breathe in relief when the job is done, and they can turn off the lamp. John settles down, though he doesn't stop grimacing in pain.

“His fever's spiking again,” Clarice murmurs.

Lorna stands up. “I'll get some wet towels.”

“Thanks,” Clarice says honestly.

“Clarice?” John breathes, opening his eyes. They roam around the room confusedly for a while before they focus on her.

“I'm here,” she whispers, taking John's hand again.

“I can't...it hurts...to much,” John says through gritted teeth. “Can't...do it.”

Clarice swallows back tears and squeezes his hand hard. “Yes you can, John. You can get through this.”

“No...'m sorry...”

His eyes close slowly, and Clarice feels his hand go limp into hers.

“John? John!” she calls. He doesn't react even to her loud shout.

“What happened?” Marcos asks in panic, running into the room.

“Call Caitlin!”

Lorna walks in behind Marcos. “Wait,” she says. She feels John's face, then gently shakes his shoulder. “I think he just passed out. He's okay.”

“How can he be okay?”

“You can get Caitlin to check, but this might be the best thing for him. It's happened before. He'll probably wake up sometime tomorrow. Later today, I mean.”

Drained, Clarice lets herself slump back on the bed. “You sure?”

Lorna nods. “At least he's not in pain anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end of this story. I toyed for a while with ending it here, because, well, we've had two episodes since, and it was never meant to be this long in the first place. But it wouldn't be fair as I promised you several conversations that haven't happened yet. So there will be one or two more chapters.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [depiction of a panic attack, slight self-harming behavior, PTSD flashbacks, mentions of canon typical violence, vomiting]
> 
> It's been a while, but I finally managed to write this chapter! Sorry it took so long, it just wouldn't come.
> 
> It's not the last chapter like I'd intended, so there will be one more, hopefully soon.

John comes to to the sound of arguing. It's strangely muffled, and after a while he realizes that's because his ears are ringing, distorting everything. At about the same time, he becomes aware of the stabbing pain in his head.

Migraine. Right. A bad one.

The rest takes more time to come back. His old military instincts have already told him he's safe, in a bed, alone in the room, so he doesn't quite panic when he remembers Turner's face first. His breathing picks up, but not enough to cause alarm.

The barrel of the gun is harder to shake off, but it's not the first time John's been on the wrong end of one. He did think, for a moment, that this was it. Turner aimed straight for his face, and even his dense body wouldn't have survived that. John shudders, and moans when the minute move sends a wave of pain through his head.

The tinnitus is almost unbearable in itself. There's nothing to be done about it, John knows from experience, and it distorts his other senses in a way even he can barely comprehend. He hasn't opened his eyes yet, but the picture of the room around him his synesthesia provides him is bizarrely hazy and full of color aberrations. Even his sense of smell is behaving strangely.

The image doesn't get better when he does open his eyes, but he closes them again against the tiny bit of light coming through the curtains. His head is throbbing along with his heart, and his wounded chest is joining the party, burning and pulling painfully. He can smell his own blood, though his bandages seem to have been changed while he was unconscious.

“You're awake,” a voice murmurs from the partly open door.

“Hey,” John mouths, as Clarice walks in on tiptoe. “Time?”

The sound doesn't actually make it past his lips, so Clarice frowns. “What?”

John clears his throat as noiselessly as he can. “What time?” he tries again.

“About six p.m.,” Clarice answers, sitting down on the bed. “We've been waiting for you to come around.”

“What happened?” John asks, his voice hoarse and low. Even the sound of Clarice's whispers, of his own, that barely register above the ringing feel like being stabbed in the head.

“You passed out during the night,” Clarice answers.

She looks disturbed. John wonders what happened to make her worry so much, but he doesn't have the energy to ask. His memories of last night, of anything since Turner, really, are hazy.

He feels clammy and gross, like he sweated a lot. It probably means a fever, though he also sweated in fear and pain at the Purifier's compound and hasn't gotten a chance to clean himself since. John doesn't want to imagine what he might have said or done during the night with the combination of fever, migraine, and his body and mind trying to deal with the trauma he just went through.

“John?” Clarice asks. “You still with me?”

John realizes he's zoned out. He opens his eyes a fraction, just to look at Clarice properly, and closes them just as fast. “Hm,” he murmurs.

“How do you feel?”

John shrugs, then winces at the pull of his wounds. “Not great.” He doesn't have the strength to detail more than that, and even less to try to lie.

“I figured,” Clarice raises her eyebrows. Her face is strangely blurry to John's power, the purple of her hair confounding with her skin. “Is there anything I can do? Anything that would make you feel better?”

John thinks about it, for too long apparently because Clarice squeezes his hand. “You feel like eating?” she asks. “You probably need the nutrients.”

John tries not to show how his stomach turns at the simple mention of food. “Later,” he murmurs. “Maybe. With...tablets.”

“Anti-emetics? Okay, I'll get those for you. Anything else?”

“Water,” John says. He might just throw it back up, but his throat is too damn dry.

He's almost asleep again when Clarice walks back in, floating in that place between wakefulness and sleep where there is nothing but pain and exhaustion.

“Here,” Clarice hands him a glass of water with a straw.

John clumsily reaches to take it and almost overthrows it instead. Clarice catches it and moves it away from his grasp.

“Wow. I'll handle it, okay? Just raise your head.”

Even that proves harder than it should be. John is too weak to hold his head up properly, so Clarice has to put the glass down on the nightstand and help him prop himself up on a pillow.

“Thanks,” John murmurs, embarrassed.

“Don't mention it. Do you want the tablets now?”

“No. But...bucket?” John wants to elaborate, but his mouth just won't make the words, not through the pulsing pain in his head.

Clarice looks bewildered for a moment. “You want...oh, you want a bucket for if you throw up,” she understands. “I'll get a basin, it will be better than the trash can.”

John only remembers the arguing he woke up to when he hears Clarice talking quietly to someone in the living room. He tries to focus, but his senses are too muddled to figure out who else is there.

“Who?” he asks when Clarice comes back, with a wave that's meant to be toward the other room. It ends up as more of a twitch of his arm.

“Marcos,” Clarice answers, holding the glass up for him to drink. John takes a single gulp, soothing his throat a little, but swallowing is almost beyond him. The wave of nausea that immediately assaults him is brutal.

His desperate grab for the basin in Clarice's hand surprises her, and she lets go of it before John can hold it steadily. It clatters to the floor−plastic, thankfully, not metal−and John painfully bends over the edge of the bed to retch.

“Oh my god, I'm sorry,” Clarice exclaims−too loudly. John almost involuntarily clasps a hand over his ear.

“'S okay,” he manages after a while, trying to get Clarice to stop fussing.

“No, I'm just making things worse.”

“You're not,” John murmurs. “Just...bad situation.”

“I just want to help,” Clarice says, a vulnerability in her face that John hasn't really seen before. This whole thing must have shaken her badly. They'll have to talk, later, figure things out.

The memories of the things he said to her make him want to retch again.

“ _I don't know what to think anymore.”_

He swallows with difficulty. Clarice is still looking at him with so much compassion, so much pain in her eyes.

“ _Why don't you go enjoy your lonely noble crusade while I fix the mess that you made?”_

John does retch, when her expression turns into disgust in his mind. Dry heaving into the basin, he tries to blink away the image of Turner and his shotgun, Turner and his headphones and the look of contempt on his face.

“ _I'm gonna hunt down every single one of your friends, and they're all gonna die.”_

The hoarse moan of pain surprises even him, who feels like his mouth will never make a noise again. For a moment, it's like his head is going to implode for real.

“John?”

John curls up as tight as he can, ignoring the pull of his bandages. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Breathing feels like knives going down his throat. And the smell of that place, the sweat and the rust and the hate, overwhelming.

Like the pain in his chest. In his head.

The unbearable noise.

Only it's not there, is it? It's a memory?

John gasps.

“John!”

He buries his head in the pillow, until he can't breathe again. It's better. Better than breathing her scent and knowing it's just a memory.

Clarice left. He drove her away. No one is coming for him.

Chains around his arms and legs, unyielding, digging into his skin, and no one is coming.

The air is full of smoke and sulfur and no one is coming.

People are screaming. Brothers, suffering, dying. Gone.

John can't move. Can't breathe.

“John!”

It's Clarice's arms around him, holding him tight, that brings him back to the present. They're soft and squeezing, not chaffing like the collar, like the chains.

John takes a gulp of air and chokes. Clarice tries to let go, give him some breathing space, but he almost unconsciously holds onto her. He's not letting her go again.

The first sob feels like a stab, and a liberation.

“Oh, John,” Clarice murmurs. “I was so scared.”

She weeps along with him, feeling the backlash of all the fear, all the worry and the pain.

 

When John wakes up again, it's nighttime. It looks like Clarice fell asleep with him, or he trapped her under his weight, because she's still in his arms. She looks up at him when he opens his eyes.

“Hey,” she smiles. “You feeling better?”

John has to think about it before answering. The pain in his head hasn't abated much, though he doesn't feel quite as nauseous. A quick look down tells him he's bled through his bandages again, which would explain the pull of his wounds. But his mind is clearer, and the ringing in his ear has finally gone down to a bearable level.

“I'm okay,” he says.

Probably not ready to even try to stand up, but okay. Not screaming in pain is close enough to okay, during a bad migraine.

Clarice nods, probably seeing right through him. They stay silent for a while, and John closes his eyes, relishing the calm. After hours of Turner's headphones, he felt like he would never hear silence again.

It's not completely silent, of course, there are neighbors pulling chairs and walking down the corridor, cars passing in the street below, and the damn ringing still at the edge of his perception, but it still feels like bliss.

Another noise attracts his attention. There's someone in the living room−more than one someone, John's power tells him. But his vision is still blurry, and he doesn't dare try to extend his reach.

“Who's here?” he asks Clarice. “I can feel Marcos, but−

“Lorna,” Clarice answers, biting her lip.

“Lorna? How?”

“She helped us get you back, remember?”

John tries to think, but his mind is a jumble. He saw Lorna, he thinks, touched her even, but it could just as well have been a dream. She hugged him, in that dream. She was there in his fever.

Was that real?

“Do you want to see her?” Clarice asks. John can't quite parse the mixed feelings in her voice.

Or the rush of emotions that flood over him. Lorna's been gone for so long. Is she even the same person?

“She stayed through the night,” Clarice adds.

He wants to see her. He wants to see her so bad, and he's terrified of what she's going to say.

“I don't...we need to talk and...I can't think,” he hesitates.

“It's okay,” Clarice says. “She's waited this long, I'm sure she can wait until the morning.”

John shakes his head. “No, what if she doesn't stay? What if she goes back and...”

“I think she'll stay. She...last night, she took care of you. When it got too much for me.”

John blinks, trying to process that. Too much information for his exhausted brain. The thought of Lorna taking care of him during a migraine...it takes him right back to the beginning, but so much has changed since then.

“Too much?” he repeats instead.

Clarice bites her lip. “You were begging for it to stop,” she murmurs.

“God,” John says. “I'm sorry you had to see this.”

“Don't apologize for being in pain, John. I'm just glad you're doing better.”

“Me too,” John admits. “It...it's been a while since I've had a migraine this bad.”

“And I'm sure the fact that you were _tortured_ for twenty-four hours had nothing to do with it,” Clarice says dryly.

John doesn't find the energy to come up with a proper retort, so he just shrugs. “It didn't help.”

Clarice gently untangles herself from him and makes to stand, but she winces and bring a hand to her back.

“What's wrong?” John asks, frowning.

“It's nothing,” Clarice evades.

“No. You're hurt.” John tries to think desperately though the fog, remember if she got hurt at the Purifiers' compound. They got shot at, at one point, he fell...did Clarice get hit? “What happened?”

“No, no, I'm fine,” Clarice says precipitately. “It's just a bruise. I...fell.”

Even in his current state, John can spot a lie this bad. He sits up in alarm, only for his body to fail him and he falls back down against the headboard with a groan. “What happened?” he repeats. “Clarice−”

“I just… It's really nothing. Don't worry about it.”

“I did it, didn't I?” John understands.

“You...you panicked last night when I tried to put on your ear defenders,” Clarice admits, hanging her head. “I just lost my balance and hit the wall.”

“Clarice, I'm so sorry. God, I−”

“I know you didn't mean it, John, it's okay.”

“No, it's not. I hurt you. I can't...it's not okay. I'm sorry.”

“John−” Clarice starts, but John turns his head away, barely realizing that his breathing has picked up. “John, please calm down. I'm fine. It will be gone in a couple of days. You're the one who's hurt.”

“You need to stay away from me,” John says. “I can't control my strength, not when I'm−”

“It's fine, John, I know. I'm being careful, but I'm not leaving.”

“No you don't understand. I could−”

John stops talking when he runs out of air, and realizes he's really panicking. He gasps, pulling at his hair with one hand.

“Stay away,” he murmurs. “Please. If you're close, if you touch me, I have to be careful not to hurt you.”

Clarice stares at him, so much anguish on her face that it hurts.

“John, please don't do this,” she says. “You won't hurt me.”

“Yes, I will. I keep hurting you.”

“It's nothing! It's just a bruise, it's fine. You didn't do it on purpose.”

“But I hurt you before,” John says, looking away.

Clarice takes a breath. John resolutely keeps his eyes on his hands, wringing them together.

“What I said...” he starts.

“We don't need to talk about it now.”

John looks up. “I didn't mean it. But I still said it. I'm sorry, Clarice. I'm so sorry.”

“We were both angry. So angry. I'm sorry too.”

The memory feels like it was both yesterday and a lifetime ago. John winces at the pull of his wounds as he tries to bring his legs up to his chest.

“I'm afraid that I'm just going to keep hurting you,” he says slowly.

“What do you mean?” Clarice asks, with an aborted movement toward him.

“This fight is so important to me, but we keep losing ground, taking more risks and...I'm so afraid of losing you. I can't stand the thought of losing you like I lost Pulse, and Sonya...”

John looks up, trying to keep the tears from falling. “That's why I have a hard time letting you in.”

“John...”

Clarice puts her hand on his arm this time. John freezes.

“Don't push me away. Please. I'm afraid of losing you too, but we're in this fight together. We have each other, right now, today. I never want to go through what the last few days again. I...the whole time you were gone, I kept thinking that...if we didn't find you, you'd never know how much I love you.”

Tears are running freely down her face now, and John feels the wetness in his own eyes, blurring his vision even more.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. “I thought...I thought I would die with you hating me. When Turner shot me...”

“ _I'm gonna hunt down every single one of your friends, and they're all gonna die.”_

He would have died with all of them hating him. Clarice left, Marcos was so angry with him, Lorna… In that moment, John was truly alone.

He tightens his arms around his knees, as if protecting himself from the thoughts. But Clarice pulls at his forearms, gently but firmly, scooting closer until he gives in. She hugs him tight, trembling slightly. After a while, John carefully closes his arms around her.

He ignores the once more growing pain in his chest and head as long as he can, relishing the feel of Clarice's body against his. She's sniffing into his shoulder, and a part of his brain still thinks he needs to cherish this for as long as it lasts, because time will soon run out. The other part is screaming at him to run away now, before he can hurt her and everyone around him any more.

For now, he just loses himself into her scent, and breathes until the pain becomes too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this very Thunderblink chapter, and my take on their conversation. As I said, there should be one more chapter with John and Lorna's reunion, and some needed discussions.
> 
> Please remember to tell me what you think of this chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [description of wounds, blood, mentions of self-harm and self-neglect, PTSD flashbacks, depression, food]
> 
> It's taken a lot longer than I ever wanted it to, but here it is. This is not even the last chapter, there will be one more, but it will come soon.
> 
> It was really hard to get back into the right mindset for this story after the rest of the season aired and went in a different direction, and to figure out how to end this in a way that wouldn't be frustrating for me or you.
> 
> Another chapter of John slowly recovering, and confronting what he's done and what had been done to him. I hope you enjoy it!

John feels better the next morning. If nothing else, the pain in his head has gone down to a level at which he can function. The worst of the migraine is over.

His chest feels like it's on fire, but it's probably just that he can feel it properly now that the migraine isn't eclipsing everything else. The bandages feel constricting, which means that he bled through them, but he doesn't think there's anything to worry about there.

He hasn't slept well, far from it. The nightmares were worse than they have been in years. Those hours spent tied up, the music, Turner shooting him, it brought things up in him that he wishes had stayed buried. He tried to spare Clarice the worst of it, long used to muffling his cries even in his sleep, but she woke up a few times along with him.

The rest of the night he spent awake, staring at the ceiling in the dark, afraid to close his eyes. He found himself back there, at the Purifiers' compound−or occasionally straight back to the desert−every time he let his thoughts wander.

And even the feel of Clarice in his arms isn't enough to make him forget. Concentrating on her is efficient to avoid spiraling out, but not to stop thinking.

So he tries to think about Lorna instead. Lorna coming to rescue him from the Purifiers' compound.

He doesn't know how he feels about that. He's spent the last nine months suppressing his own feelings to support Marcos, but the tightness in his stomach always stayed. That little ball of worry, of betrayal and bitterness, the grief he hasn't let himself feel. He knows it's the reason his mind goes wild every time Clarice is in danger, why letting her out of his sight has been so hard. Everyone he loves ends up leaving him or dying.

He only barely remember his parents guiding him, eyes closed and hands over his ears, into a hospital never to come back. The image of his little brother, lying unconscious on the floor by his fault, has similarly faded with the overwhelming sensory inputs of his powers manifesting. But he remembers every face since. The professors at the X-Mansion, the X-Men who disappeared without a trace. The brothers he lost in Afghanistan, the ones who died because of him. All the mutants who came to the station only to be captured or killed on a raid, later. Pulse. Sonya. Lorna. All gone.

He came so close to losing Clarice to his own self-destructive spiral.

And now Lorna is back, and John doesn't know if she's still the friend his heart mourned or if she's become a stranger.

“Hey,” Clarice brings him out of his thoughts, gently stroking his face. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” John answers. Clarice is whispering, but her voice doesn't feel like a knife going through his head, so that's a distinct improvement.

“You're feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Clarice says. “I was starting to worry.”

She's smiling, but John can see the shadows in her eyes, the exhaustion. He hates that she had to see all that, the migraine and the fever. He remembers little of it beside the pain, but he knows it was bad.

The last time he felt this wretched was years ago. After Pulse died, John remembers. He worked himself into a migraine so bad he couldn't even stand up for the best part of two weeks. A lot of time spent huddled in bed missing his lover and best friend.

It took him a year to get through the depression that followed.

Almost automatically, John reaches for the chain around his neck, but the only thing he finds is bandages. The chain is gone. Panicked, he looks around him, until he spots the dog tags safely resting on the nightstand.

He reaches weakly, but Clarice is faster, going over him.

“This what you're looking for?” she asks, taking the tags and handing them to him.

“Thanks,” John murmurs.

He squeezes the tags lightly in his hands, in a way he knows won't damage them. He probably doesn't have much control over his strength right now, but familiar moves are easier.

“They're important to you,” Clarice states.

John nods. He doesn't need to look at them, he knows them by heart.

“Why? Why are the Marines still so important to you after they discharged you like they did?”

“It's not about the Marines,” John says.

He opens his hand and brings it closer to Clarice, for her to see. “You never looked?” he asks. He used to wear them to bed, in Atlanta, but now he puts them on his nightstand every night, carefully. He thought she'd have been curious about it, by now.

“I respect your privacy,” Clarice shakes her head.

“I know you do, but we live together.”

Clarice gently takes the tags from his hand.

“Proudstar, John F.,” she smiles, stroking the embossed letters with her thumb. She looks at the second tag. “Milligan, Augustus… It's not yours?”

“Pulse,” John explains. “We served together. When he was captured, the first time, he'd left his tags in our apartment. That's when I started carrying them around. When we freed him, he liked the idea, so we exchanged one tag. It's not like we needed them for their original purpose anymore.”

Clarice puts them back in his hand. “I had no idea,” she says, moved. “What happened to the other pair?”

John looks away. “Gus didn't wear them the night he was captured, so I still had them. I buried them with him.”

Clarice nods sadly, watching him. John looks away from her face and toward the ceiling, rubbing at the tags. They stay unmoving for several minutes, each lost in their thoughts.

“I need to move,” John says suddenly, sitting up fully.

“You sure? You're still−”

“I need the bathroom, for one. And I've been lying down for long enough.”

“Okay,” Clarice says. “Your bandages also need changing. Do you want to wait for Caitlin or do you want me to do it?”

“I can do it myself,” John shrugs. He winces immediately at the pull of a wound near his shoulder.

Clarice just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Alright, you can do it. But I really need a shower,” John says sheepishly.

“You think you can manage it?”

“Probably.”

“Okay then,” Clarice says, observing him. “Let me help.”

John considers protesting, but he already knows there's little point to that. And he needs to save what little energy he has for getting out of bed. He removes the blanket and pushes himself up instead.

“Wow,” Clarice says when he sways immediately, catching him by the arm. John sits back down to wait out the bout of dizziness and nausea. He has nothing in his stomach to throw up, thankfully.

“I'm okay,” he says when he doesn't feel like retching when he opens his mouth anymore.

“You haven't eaten in days,” Clarice remarks. “I wanted to get you some soup last night, but you were too sleepy.”

“It's alright, I'll eat something later.”

Their trip to the bathroom is unsteady and slow, Clarice doing her best to support John without taking on too much of his weight. John's dizziness doesn't abate much even once he's upright, and his body is stiff and sore all over.

Clarice has been complaining since the beginning that the bathroom light is not strong enough to do her makeup right, but John is grateful for it now. He already has to squint at the light coming from the window.

Clarice carefully undoes the bandages, and John barely dares to look down at his chest at her grimace. The wounds look better than when Clarice first dressed them, with the bleeding stopped, but there's still puckering red holes all over his torso. They're already healing, though, John can tell. Not quite as fast as his body normally heals, but given the trauma it's been through, that's hardly surprising. His skin will barely scar.

Except for the wounds that are still bothering him the most, around his right shoulder. There's still more blood on the bandages than there should be, and the wounds themselves look torn somehow, ragged-edged. John stares at it in the mirror, trying to remember if something happened there.

“You−” Clarice hesitates when he asks, as she's redoing the dressings after his shower. “You were half-delirious, and trying to ease the migraine, I think.”

He did this to himself, John understands. He's not surprised, but he winces again that Clarice saw that.

“Lorna was there,” she says. “She's the one who got you to calm down. I was−”

“I'm sorry,” John murmurs.

“You were in pain,” Clarice says, taking his face in her hands gently to get him to look at her. “So much pain. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't happy that Lorna came here, but I have to give it to her that she handled it well.”

“I wish...I wish she didn't have to. That _you_ didn't have to.”

“Me too. But it's done now. Just...don't get yourself captured again?”

John gives her a small smile. “I'll try.”

“John… Marcos told me. That you sacrificed yourself for him. If I'd been there…”

“Clarice, this isn't your fault. It's not on you. It didn't happen because you weren't there. It happened because of Turner and his friends, it's all on them.”

_And me_ , John doesn't add. Because Clarice isn't wrong, if she'd been there she'd have just opened a portal and gotten them all out. But she left because of him. Because he was rash and reckless and said awful things to her.

It's like Clarice sees through him, though.

“John, since Atlanta, you've been blaming yourself for so many things,” she starts.

“Because it was my fault,” John mutters. “I left Pulse for dead. I came up with the plan that go you and Sonya captured. I left the station to be attacked. I didn't pay enough attention to Lorna after she got out of prison. I screwed up so many things since. Those things _are_ on me.”

“You can't take it all on your shoulders! We were all there, we made most of those decisions together. You're not responsible for everything.”

“You were new to the Underground, you didn't know any of us yet,” John shakes his head. “You're not to blame for that. I am.”

“What about me?” Marcos asks from the door frame.

John and Clarice both look up in surprise, unaware that he was there. Clarice went to get the bandages from the bedroom earlier, leaving the door open, but John didn't hear Marcos come into the apartment. His senses are still shaky and confused by the migraine and the tinnitus.

He sighs, unable to answer. He can't truly pretend that Marcos didn't make all those decisions with him, though he was the one who was most reluctant about going to Charlotte. And Marcos has been too unstable since Lorna left to be held responsible for their failures. Those are on John.

“I was the station leader,” he says.

“No. You and Lorna were station leaders,” Marcos shoots back. “And she left.”

John nods slowly, looking away.

“I was coming to tell you that she should be here in about an hour. She really wants to talk to you, John. It's good to see you up, by the way.”

“Have you two talked?” John asks him.

“When you were sleeping, yes. We're...it's going to be a while before we're okay, but we've come to a truce of sort.”

“Good,” John says. Lorna bothering to truly talk to Marcos means she intends to keep seeing him. Seeing them. John doesn't know how to feel about that.

“John...this isn't really the right time for this, but...” Marcos hesitates.

John sighs. There are conversations he won't escape, he knows that. His rash, reckless actions before getting captured will need to be discussed.

“We've all been watching you spin out for the last few weeks,” Marcos says

“Kidnapping that man was a terrible idea, I know,” John says too quickly. “I shouldn't have brought you into this. I put you all in danger.”

“It's not about that,” Marcos shakes his head. “But yes, it was reckless and you put us in danger, so let's not do that again.”

“Then what?”

“John, I can recognize this pattern. Making rash decisions, closing up, refusing to talk, all those times you showed up with bruised knuckles. I know I haven't been very...perceptive lately, I've been too focused on my own problems, but I can see where you're heading, and it's not good.”

John stares at him for a moment. He's talking about Pulse's death, he knows, and the months of depression and self-harm that followed.

“It's not the same−” he starts, but he interrupts himself. It's not quite right. He hasn't really seen it until now, but it is similar. It's similar to the downward spiral he fell into after getting kicked out of the Marines, too. John bites his lip.

“You know it too,” Marcos says. “I don't want to see you go down that road again, brother.”

John sighs. Clarice looks between them silently.

“I don't… I don't want to lose you,” Marcos adds, his voice breaking. “When Turner got you, and we couldn't find you… I really thought that we'd never see you again. I know you'd never talk. I kept thinking that, when they realized that, they would just−”

“He tried. Turner. But you got there in time.”

John doesn't want to say how close it was. That what saved him was Turner not paying attention to the cartridges in his shotgun, not their arrival.

“I'm really, really glad we did,” Marcos nods.

He looks honestly relieved. John turns to Clarice, and there's something else in her eyes, something he can't quite define. She was the one who saw him tied to a pole, heaving in pain, barely thirty seconds after he looked death in the eyes in the form of a gunshot barrel.

John blinks away the image. “So am I,” he says. He stands up, wincing in pain. His head still hurts enough that keeping it up without support is an effort.

“You need to eat,” Clarice reminds him. John nods, grateful that that signifies the end of the conversation for now. Marcos moves away from the door to let him through.

“I'll leave you two to it,” he says. “I just wanted to give you a heads up about Lorna.”

“Thanks,” John nods at him. The three of them in the small bathroom, or even in his and Clarice's bedroom, feels crowded. Too much noise and movement. He breathes better once Marcos closes the door of the apartment behind him.

Between them, Clarice and John scour up enough things to make a breakfast of porridge and apples. It's the most likely food in their depleted kitchen−no one has been shopping in a while−to stay down in John's stomach, which turns at the thought of eating despite the pills he took.

T hey sit across from each other in silence for a while, each picking at their bowls.

“I need to know what's going on in your head, John,” Clarice says, gently taking his hand. “I knew you blamed yourself, but−”

“I'm sorry. I though I could...I didn't want you to have to carry that weight too.”

_I thought you might start blaming me, too_ , John doesn't say. He can see, a little more now, how he made things worse by keeping it all in. But that fear is still there. That if he tells Clarice and Marcos just how far he's fallen, they'll turn their back on him. Why would they trust him again, after  how many times he's failed?”

“But I want to. I want to help you carry whatever weight is on your shoulders.”

John is fairly sure she's telling the truth, but he's not convinced he deserves it. No, he knows he doesn't deserve Clarice. Like he never deserved Pulse, or Dreamer. And he got them killed.

I s he going to get Clarice killed too? At the rate things are going, he's going to get all of his friend killed before the year is out. Maybe it would be better to just take himself out of the equation, before he become the cause of someone else's death.

John shakes his head. He knows, on some level, that his own mind is betraying him with those thoughts. He thinks about the barrel of the gun again, the sensation of his death right there in front of him. That's not what he wants.

“I'll try to be better,” he says hoarsely. “At talking to you.”

“I hope so. Because I can't do this again, John. I can't watch you destroy yourself and refuse to communicate.”

J ohn opens his mouth to swear he's  not going to do it again , but he realizes this is a promise he might not be able to keep. He just can't stop himself, sometimes. He can't stop the downward spirals from happening, his thoughts from getting stuck in a loop. Not by himself.

“I'm gonna need your help with that,” he admits in a whisper, not looking at Clarice.

“Of course I'll help. I'm here for you, John. Always.”

John closes his eyes, feeling them fill with tears. He wants to believe that, so very much.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

That, he knows is the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one last chapter, hopefully sometime next week as it's very nearly written. It will be the Lorna/John conversation that's been brewing for the whole story, finally.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please tell me what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go for the last chapter, the long-awaited confrontation between John and Lorna.

J ohn is unenthusiastically  squinting at his laptop, his head in his hands, when he hears Lorna come. He's expecting her, so he picks up her gait all the way down the corridor.

Clarice has gone to Marcos's place, at his request. He can't talk with Lorna properly if she and Marcos are here to run interference. That could only end in a four-way argument. John doesn't know for sure what Lorna's intentions are, but this could get ugly. There's no need for witnesses.

He grunts a 'come in' and Lorna opens the door, uncharacteristically hesitant. John puts his laptop aside, but he doesn't stand up. He needs to conserve the little strength he has for the discussion to come.

“John,” Lorna says, rigid and hesitant.

“Lorna,” John sighs, running a hand through his hair. He's still topless, the white bandages covering his chest in full sight, and Lorna's eyes stray toward it.

John doesn't know whether to be thankful she was there during the worst of his migraine or angry that she chose to come back when he was at his most vulnerable. He still doesn't know what he may have said to her in his fever, and he doesn't like the advantage that gives her.

“Why are you even here?” he asks.

Lorna sighs, looking away. “You're not going to like it,” she says.

John frowns. “I'm not sure there's an answer you could give me that I would like, Lorna. I'm guessing you haven't suddenly switched sides and decided to come back to the Underground?”

“Would you even take me back?”

“That's not really up to me,” John says.

“They came to me to rescue you.”

“And you helped them. Why?”

“Because you're still my friend?” She makes it sound like a question, her voice wavering.

“Am I? You're the one who's refused to talk to us for the last nine months.”

“I haven't forgotten you, John.”

“You just have new friends.” John hates himself immediately, aware that he sounds like a jealous ex.

“And you have a new girlfriend,” Lorna states.

John doesn't want to try to untangle the implications of that, the echoes of Dreamer and Pulse in her voice, the feeling he still gets sometimes that he's betraying them. They would both have wanted him to be happy, as happy as possible. Most days, he remembers that. But today is a bad day.

“So we're back at the beginning,” he says. “Why are you here?”

“Sage found a...video. Recordings, from the Purifiers' compound.”

John blinks in surprise, then closes his eyes. He didn't notice a camera, Turner never gave him the opportunity to get a good look at the room. But he knows exactly what must be on the video.

“You watched it?”

Lorna nods sadly. “I felt like I should. Like I owe you that.”

“You don't owe me anything,” John says. “Especially not that.”

“I do owe you at least an explanation. Only I'm not sure I can give you one.”

John really looks at her. “I understand why you left, Lorna, I really do.”

“Do you?”

“It would have been easier if I didn't. Do you think I've never thought about it before? That I never wanted a better world for us? How many times did we imagine it together?”

“Then why didn't you do it?”

“Because I can't stop caring about what a war would cost us. The price is too high.”

“But we're at war anyway!” Lorna heats up. John doesn't rise to her tone, hunching in his seat even more instead.

“Yes we are. We've already lost too many lives, Lorna, too many friends.”

“But that's exactly what I'm trying to prevent!”

“And yet this Inner Circle of yours is burning down everything we've built,” John says quietly, but looking her straight in the eye. “What Reeva Page wants is an all-out war between humans and mutants. It's going to be a slaughter, and we won't come out on top. And even if we did, _nothing_ is worth the kind of destruction that it will bring.”

Lorna has to break eye contact when it becomes to intense, too painful.

“I just want a safe place, for all of us,” she says. “For you, too. You and Clarice, you deserve it.”

“It was never about what we deserve, Lorna,” John shakes his head.

“So you're just going to let all those people be imprisoned? Taken into what's basically slavery? The Sentinel Services have been arresting mutants all over the city, all over the country!”

“Yes, because of what _you_ did! _You_ started this, Lorna. What you did in Charlotte−”

“It wasn't the start and you know it,” Lorna spits out. “7/15 was what changed everything. Or maybe it was even before. But neither of us is responsible for this, and neither is Reeva. She wants freedom for all of us!”

“Freedom? By getting people killed?”

“While _you_ got yourself captured, _we_ were out there freeing mutants! We deactivated all the collars, all over the country!”

John has had enough time to update himself on the current news before she arrived, so it's not a surprise. What he recklessly tried to stop by kidnapping a mostly innocent businessman came to fruition anyway, and it was probably going to happen even if he hadn't messed it up so badly.

John unconsciously runs a hand over the bruises the Purifier's collar left on his neck. It was a different type of collar, but just as restricting, just as humiliating. Clarice sometimes still wakes up choking, having flashbacks of her time at the Trask labs or the detention center.

But freeing all imprisoned mutants, all over the country? The consequences of that are beyond his ability to process right now, but they will be far-reaching, most likely disastrous.

“How many of those mutants were truly dangerous, Lorna?” he asks. “Have you thought about it? The collars are a torture devices, but freeing all those people at once, did you ever stop to think about the consequences? The war that you're starting?”

“Whatever they did, do they deserved to be tortured?” Lorna shoots back.

“I'm thinking more about what they could do now,” John mutters. “Do you think Reeva had you do that for free? Do you think she doesn't have something else in mind? This isn't her endgame.”

John stops to take a breath, as his head feels like it's ready to implode again. He rubs at his eyes, wincing when he touches the gash on his cheek.

“Do you really know where she's going, Lorna?” he asks when he's found his voice again. “Is it somewhere you're ready to follow?”

Lorna closes her eyes with a sigh.

“When I was giving birth, Reeva and the Frosts showed me something,” she says slowly. “The world as they want it to become. A mutant nation, for us. A safe place, where we can be happy.”

John looks at her for a moment, his energy spent. He can see the passion as much as the doubt in Lorna's eyes. How to even formulate what he thinks about this? It's a beautiful dream. He would have fallen for it, once. Before going to war.

“Do you really believe in this so hard you're willing to pay any price to get there?” he asks in a low voice.

Lorna doesn't answer.

“Whatever they showed you, it was a dream, Lorna.”

“Aren't we supposed to chase our dreams?”

John shakes his head. “Not...like that,” he mutters.

They're both silent for a moment. Neither of them is ready to concede their political vision for the sake of their friendship, and that's exactly why they're destroying each other.

Yet the love, the grief and the pain can't be ignored.

“So what now?” Lorna asks, weary.

“I'm worried one day we're going to end up each on one side of a battlefield” John says. “What do we do then?”

“I could never fight against you. Not on a battlefield, not ever. It doesn't matter what Reeva asks of me, there are lines I won't cross.”

“I think maybe you already have,” John says evenly.

Lorna chokes and turns away. John hangs his head. He does think it, what Lorna did in Charlotte isn't something that he can forget. And everything she's done since, abandoning Marcos only to dangle their daughter in his face multiple times since, then giving her away. Her actions are the reason Michael died, too, another brother lost to this war. And the dozens of people that have already been killed in prisoner altercations all over the country since the release of the collars, that she seems to consider just collateral damage. She may have come back to save John, but he's starting to really wonder what she's still doing here.

 

Lorna tries to swallow her tears and keep her composure. John's last words have hit her deeper than she expected. Of course she didn't think she could come here and act like nothing happened in the last nine months, but he as much as said he's not going to forgive her.

Is that why she came? To ask for forgiveness? She doesn't even know anymore. It was clear in her mind at first, after Sage gave her the video. She needed to confront John about his guilt toward her.

Except if she's as detached from the Underground as she pretends to be, why should she care so much?

“On the video,” she says, after they've been silent for a while. “You said−”

John sighs. “I didn't mean to give you away. I really didn't want to. But Turner already knew.”

“I saw that,” Lorna says. “That's not what I want to−”

She interrupts herself mid-sentence when she sees the way John's eyes are looking through her, the fists his hands are making. “John?”

John shakes his head. “Sorry,” he rasps out.

“You were having a flashback,” Lorna remarks quietly. Of course he would. What she's seen of his torture, and the following night, is going to stay with her for a long time. But John lived through it.

John looks down at his hands and looses the fists, carefully. “It doesn't matter,” he says.

“It does. Night before last was...bad. Worst than I've seen you since...”

John stops her with one hand. “You haven't been here, Lorna.”

No, she hasn't. Though Clarice and Marcos seemed just as shocked and lost, so she's fairly sure that John hasn't had migraines this bad since she left. But what John means is that she has no right to ask him about it, and he's right.

It doesn't stop her from caring.

“Turner. He shot you because he saw Marcos and me together. He almost killed you.”

“Yes,” John says.

Lorna's eyes linger on the bandages on his chest, the wounds she can see on his shoulders. She thinks about the amount of metal she pulled out of them. John would not have survived another shot.

She's the one who triggered Turner's anger. She's the one he was interrogating John about in the first place, because he recognized her description from the bank.

“Why did you let yourself get captured?” she asks instead. “Marcos told me how it happened. You could have let them get Fade and run, it would have bought you enough time.”

_Because that's not who John is_ , the answer comes to Lorna. But this John isn't the one she left behind all those months ago. He's more...jaded, more desperate.

John closes his eyes. “You don't know that,” he says. “I didn't exactly have time to think.”

So his first instinct was to sacrifice himself. Which is almost worse somehow, but that _is_ who John is. Lorna bites her lip.

“Before that...” she hesitates. “You told him that Andy and I left because you failed.” There. She's said it. It sounds even more wrong coming out of her mouth than it did when said by John on the video.

“And you disagree,” John sighs, like this is the last thing he wants to talk about. It probably is. But Lorna needs to understand.

“Do you really think you're responsible for the things _I_ chose to do?” she asks almost angrily, because anger seems to be her default response mode these days.

“No. But the way I handled things since you were arrested...everything went wrong, and I'm responsible for a good part of that.”

“For what, exactly? You didn't send me to prison. Actually, you got me out. I could still be there, in some unnamed facility no one know about.”

“I got Sonya killed,” John says quietly, looking down. “We should never have tried to hit the Trask lab when we did. We weren't anywhere near prepared enough. I got carried away because of Pulse−”

“I made that decision with you, John! We all did!”

Lorna tries to say more, but the words catch in her throat. She knew, on some level, that John blamed himself for Pulse's death, for him becoming a Hound. But Sonya's death...Andy still has nightmares of it, she knows. So does Lauren, most likely. Maybe even Clarice. They were there, after all. Lorna herself carried some of that guilt, at first, before the anger and the sadness overtook everything else.

But John… It makes sense, she realizes. John will blame himself for the weather if he's given the chance. It's just that Lorna never knew. Because they never talked about it.

She remembers the memorial, and the tears John never shed, the way he held himself back, away from everybody. How did she miss it entirely? How was she so preoccupied that she didn't check how he was doing?

Lorna shakes herself. This isn't why she's here. She doesn't care about John like that, anymore−no, that's not right. She _can't_ _afford_ to care about him that way. Not if she wants to keep fighting. Just like she had to put everything else aside, her daughter, her relationship with Marcos, she put aside her best friend, too, her brother.

And because the pain of being separated from him wasn't as nagging, she almost forgot about it. Until Marcos came to her to say he'd been captured. And even then, she almost didn't help him.

She shakes her head.

“You weren't okay, Lorna,” John says softly. “Whatever happened to you in jail, it changed you. I should have realized, but I missed it.”

Lorna snaps back to the present.

“So you think I went with the Inner Circle because I got, what, traumatized in prison?” she asks sarcastically.

John shrugs, wincing as he presses a hand to his side. “No. Or not just that. I told you, I understand why you did what you did. But we never took the time to talk things out, to make choice together, and I think that's what destroyed us.”

“We've always disagreed on some things. Maybe it was bound to happen.”

She catches John's eyes for just a second, before he looks away, swallowing hard.

“Was it?” he asks hoarsely.

Lorna doesn't answer.

John is right. She changed, after going to prison. She came out desperate to give her child, her family, a life worth living. The Hounds terrified her, because she could never stop thinking it could happen to her own family. She and John fought for all the mutants to come, until one day one of those mutant turned out to be her daughter.

She's never going to give that up, that drive to make the world better. She'll always believe that fighting for mutants is doing the right thing, and that John, like the X-Men before him, puts too many restrictions on himself. They cannot accomplish anything if they're not willing to act for real, not just talk about things.

Except… How far is she willing to follow Reeva blindly? The woman refuses to tell them her plans. Lorna would never have accepted that back when she was leading the station with John in Atlanta. She needed to know every plan down to the last detail, and more often than not came up with them herself, when John starting doubting his own ability to lead after Pulse's death.

But she's been meekly following Reeva for months. Has becoming a mother changed her so much? Or was it leaving everything behind, all the love and the safety that she'd found with Marcos and John and the others?

Does she trust Reeva enough to help her burn down this world and let her rise from the ashes?

In that moment, sitting across from John in an unfamiliar apartment, like she once sat across from him in Tex's Lounge years ago, Lorna knows the answer is no.

She just doesn't know what she's going to do about it.

“ _Would you even take me back?”_

She stands up quietly. She's overstayed her welcome. She can see John fading, hunching over more in his seat by the minute, and there's nothing holding her back. Except the pull of her own heart.

“Lorna?”

Lorna stops at the door and turns back, meeting John's eyes. She doesn't hold his shining, fevered gaze for long.

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens...you're always welcome here.”

Lorna closes her eyes, feeling a tear fall down her cheek. She nods, unable to get words past her mouth, and closes the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show gave us one short John/Lorna conversation as a reunion, but I felt that we were a bit robbed of an actual discussion. So here's my version of it, in a way.
> 
> This story took a long time to finish, in part because I couldn't settle on an ending I was satisfied with. I have a hard time ending things. But I'm okay with this bittersweet, open ending, and I hope you are too as a reader.
> 
> Please tell me what you think, if you enjoyed this chapter and the story. I'm always incredibly grateful for comments and reviews. Thank you for going on this journey with me, thank you so much to everyone who commented, left kudos, or just read and enjoyed it. If you also read my other stories, I will see you there, otherwise I'm also on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theemmaarthur) where I post writing thoughts and reblog Gifted content.


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